Of Mind and Blood
by Hannelore-Grace
Summary: After the events of Reichenbach, John is injured and gets amnesia. Mycroft, who promised Sherlock he would care for John, steps in and acts as John's older brother. This causes problems when Sherlock returns. Eventual J/S.
1. The Funeral

There were many times when Mycroft considered telling John that it was all a lie.

The first was at the memorial service. He thought it exceptionally crass to be holding a service for a man that was not dead, but Mummy had insisted. Besides, the ruse would not have been convincing without it, and it was of the utmost importance that everyone believed Sherlock dead. At least, this was what Sherlock had impressed upon Mycroft. He had yet to fully comprehend the many underlying reasons behind Sherlock's actions, but he suspected that the most pressing excuse stood to the side of Sherlock's empty casket, quietly staring at the wood as if he were a magician about to draw his lovely assistant from within the box. John's eyes were blank, just blue empty voids which fell flatly on the world around him. So unlike the man Mycroft had abducted. John had been cold and distant then, too, but this was different. Now, the will and want to fight had been drained out of him. Now, he was simply living because it was the most convenient option available.

Mycroft thought that the most crippling of blows was that Mummy had insisted John be the one to deliver the eulogy. He had stood in front of the small gathering, his army posture rigidly in place, while he spoke of Sherlock's short life and many accomplishments. Mycroft ached to make him stop, to pull him aside and tell him all just to make that hollow, deadened look leave John's face, but he had refrained. Sherlock had, after all, left John's protection in his hands. If he told John, the man would have surely run after what little trail Sherlock had left behind, and invariably thrown himself into every dangerous situation imaginable. No, Mycroft agreed that it was for the best that John didn't follow after his brother. So he had watched quietly as John's words fell over the gathering, drawing tears from most and a stiffening of the upper lip from Lestrade and others. John, meanwhile, maintained the same blank mask he had held all evening.

Finally, the service was over and an even smaller group arrived at Mummy's estate for a memorial dinner. The affair was far too extravagant to have been wholly tactful, but Mycroft supposed that he couldn't deny Mummy a chance to flaunt the family's wealth. She so rarely had these occasions; that one should be in the memory of her beloved (estranged, wayward, capricious) son seemed only fitting. Detective Inspector Lestrade and John were among those invited, and together they stood off to the side. Neither of them fully fit in with the rest of the crowd, and so they hovered on the edges, Lestrade making conversation with those that attempted speaking to the duo while John maintained the shell-shocked quiet he had since the service.

Watching John from across the room, Mycroft was once again tempted to pull him into a quiet corner and reveal all to him. He thought that, if he thoroughly explained Sherlock's reasoning, John would certainly see the logic of it and remain as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. Then again, Mycroft still didn't fully comprehend Sherlock's reasoning, and he had been pondering over it for a couple of weeks now. This time, the only thing that prevented him from following through with his urges was the sound of the dinner bell calling them into the dining hall. They were all herded around the table by Mummy and the staff until they had taken their appropriate seats. Mummy was seated at the head of the table with Mycroft at her right, of course, but many guests were surprised to see the two slightly shabbily dressed men sitting directly next to Mycroft. At least, they were shabbily dressed in comparison to the rest of the guests in Armani and Burberry.

Quiet chatter fell over the table as the staff delivered the hors d'oeuvres. There were a variety of the appetizers, all as pompous and irritatingly grand as the last. Lestrade seemed somewhat befuddled as to how to properly eat the items placed in front of himself and therefore watched Mycroft's actions before mimicking them. John, meanwhile, stared down at his plate as if it had somehow insulted him before stabbing his fork at a crab cake until it was a crumbled mess. Mycroft wasn't sure if he had taken a bite at all when the staff whisked their plates away. They brought the entrees out then, and the noise around the table increased as the guests began picking up their silverware and plunging knives into the salmon. Mycroft was painfully aware of John sitting stiffly by his side, making no motion to begin eating. On the contrary, his shoulders were lightly shaking and his hands were balled into fists atop his thighs.

"John..."

In retrospect, Mycroft probably should have known better than to prod at John, no matter how gently. He supposed that his lapse in judgment could be forgiven due to the extenuating circumstances surrounding the matter, but still, he felt slightly guilty for being conduit through which John threw his emotions.

"Sherlock hated fish." John stated coldly, his gaze now locked on the offending chunk of food on his plate. "Why would you serve fish at the memorial service for a man that hated fish?"

"John, plenty of people like fish. I'm sure Sherlock would-"

"It doesn't matter what Sherlock would or would not do because Sherlock isn't bloody well here, now is he? And I don't care how you rationalize it, Mycroft; it's _wrong _to serve fish for a man that hated fish!" With that, John roughly shoved his chair away from the table and walked out of the dining room. Mycroft noted that his gait had a slight sway to it, as if his limp had partially returned.

Lestrade looked from the doorway to Mycroft, concern causing his brow to furrow. "Should I go after him?"

"No, of course not. Enjoy your dinner, Inspector. I'll go see to Doctor Watson." Mycroft rose too, then, and walked in the direction he predicted John had gone. As expected, he found John standing on the porch, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he stared up at the night sky.

"John."

John's eyes remained resolutely trained upwards, his shoulder stiffly turned so that his back was all that Mycroft could see of him. "If you would like to talk, I would gladly listen."

Mycroft sighed as John ignored him. He knew that John could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, if not more so. He had, after all, somehow managed to live with his brother for several months with very few incidents. "If this is about the fish, I can assure you that Mummy meant no disrespect. She was merely trying to please our bereft guests. And after all, there aren't many foods of which Sherlock would approve."

"Only because you didn't look for them," John bit out.

"Excuse me?"

"The only reason you don't know Sherlock's favorite foods is because you never cared enough to find out what he did and did not like. You and Mummy," he practically spat out the last word as if it were toxic, "never saw beyond your china tea cups and silver spoons long enough to notice what he liked."

"I can assure you, John, that wasn't the case. As much as Sherlock liked to play the alienated, cast-aside son, we welcomed his eccentricities and encouraged him to follow whatever path he chose."

"Right." John scoffed and eased himself down onto the step, massaging his leg as he stretched it out. Mycroft approached slowly, giving John ample opportunity to object before settling himself down next to the man. The two sat together, John's eyes once again locked onto the night sky while Mycroft stared pointedly down at his shoes. He could see the tears John was fighting to hold back in the corners of his eyes, and so chose to act as if they weren't there and turned his attention elsewhere.

"Everyone in there, everyone except you and Lestrade, they don't belong here."

"It's my mother's home. She can invite whomever she wishes."

"That's not what I meant." John lapsed into silence again, and Mycroft feared that he had lost the chance to talk to him. Soon, however, John began speaking once again. "They keep talking about Sherlock. About how it's such a _pity _that he died the way he did, how it's such a _pity _that he didn't choose a calm, normal career. About what a shame it is that he didn't become a lawyer or a stock broker or some other nonsense. They don't understand...He was better than all of that. He was..."

"Unique," Mycroft filled in for him. For that's truly what Sherlock was. He was probably one of the few actual unique people in the world, as far as Mycroft could tell. Oh yes, there was all this blather about everyone's genes making them unique, but Sherlock was more than that. From the coding of his DNA to the living he carved out for himself in this mass-production world, he was special. Few could claim so much.

"Yes. Unique."

They fell into silence all over again, except now the tension had bled away, leaving only an exhausted shell in its wake. It certainly wasn't a comfortable sort of quiet, merely a resigned one.

"Would you like to return to dinner? They'll be serving dessert soon. Mummy has arranged for plum pudding, one of Sherlock's favorites."

John turned a disbelieving eye on Mycroft. "You actually think that Sherlock liked plum pudding?"

"He didn't?" Mycroft blinked in surprise. Since Sherlock was a child, he had always pleaded for plum pudding for every dessert at family gatherings. It was just another oddity that their mother had indulged as often as she could.

"No, of course not. He just pretended to like it so you all would be forced to eat it at the family gatherings that you made him attend, and would therefore be at least partially as miserable as he was. I always figured that you knew..." Mycroft shook his head slowly, silently cursing Sherlock and vowing to find a way to pay him back for this if he ever saw the man again. John gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "Even after death, he's still more clever than us all," he choked out, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks.

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable if we went back inside?" Mycroft wasn't sure what he was expected to do to comfort John. In retrospect, he probably should have sent Lestrade out. Lestrade at least had experience in helping victims of crimes and their families cope with grief. Mycroft rarely encounter people in such vulnerable states in his line of work.

"No, I don't want to go back in there. It's fine out here. It's a nice night."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm sorry for accusing you of not paying attention to Sherlock. I'm sure you cared plenty, even if it was through the lens of a security camera." He cast a sardonic smile in Mycroft's direction before rising with a light groan.

"Yes," Mycroft did likewise, carefully brushing his suit down to remove any dirt from the expensive fabric. "Our relationship has been strained for years. I never stopped loving him, however."

And that love was all that kept Mycroft from telling John everything, then and there. Anything less wouldn't have prevented him from finding a way to erase the way John was staring despondently into the clouds while tears dried on his cheeks. He was no longer crying, but Mycroft suspected that it was due to his pride and not an actual loss of emotion.

"I should go. Being here is pointless. It's not helping anyone."

"Mummy will be most displeased."

"Mummy," John stated coolly, "can take her pate de foie gras and bugger off."

Mycroft gave a low chuckle. Few actually liked his mother, but most were too intimidated by her penetrating stare and calculating mannerisms to speak so boldly of it. That John was willing to do so either meant that he was a stronger man than most, or he had spent too much time around Sherlock. Mycroft suspected that it was a mixture of the two.

"In that case, I believe I will return to dinner to enjoy my plum pudding. I had best check on DI Lestrade, also. I'm not sure how he has fared against our guests."

"Better than most, I would assume. Lestrade's pretty adaptable, would have to be, to have put up with Sherlock for so long."

"Of course." Mycroft looked John over carefully, judging whether or not he would be fit for travel on his own. He looked perfectly capable of finding his own way home safely, so Mycroft decided to leave him to his own devices. With a security detail on the watch, of course. "I hope you have a better night, John. Perhaps have a bit of whatever dessert really was our dear Sherlock's favorite."

"Banana cream pie," John stated simply before turning to walk towards the main road. Mycroft considered following him, or even calling for Anthea to come for him, but he thought that John likely wanted some time to himself. He obviously wasn't used to being in such a vulnerable state, and wanted some peace to sort his feelings out.

Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered if what Sherlock was doing was truly what was best. He suspected that, if Sherlock ever found his way home, he would find that he had created more problems than he had solved. John, for one, was not going to simply forgive Sherlock for his actions. In fact, if he ever trusted Sherlock again, Mycroft would be truly surprised. And that, if anything, would be the greatest wound of all to Sherlock.


	2. Grief

John, having acted as both a doctor and a pseudo-psychologist for many men in his unit, was well acquainted with the stages of grief. As such, he knew and identified each stage as he passed through it.

Denial.

This, of course, had been the moment he had read the letter Sherlock had left sitting on the nightstand. He hadn't believed that Sherlock would just leave him, and had thus spent most of the morning calling various locations where he might possibly have gone and trying to track him down in general. When he had received the call from Mycroft, his very first response had been, "No, he isn't." Simple and straight-forward, as always. Sherlock simply _wasn't _dead in his mind. He couldn't be, not until John had seen hard, physical evidence of it. He still hadn't seen it. There was none to be seen. Ghastly death that, falling over a waterfall. He had slowly come to terms with the idea, but still, a niggling sensation in the back of his mind expected Sherlock to show up at any given moment and announce that it had been all an elaborate scheme, that he had merely faked his death to increase his chances of being able to thoroughly destroy Moriarty's crime ring. But that was foolishness; merely wishful, hopeful, childish thinking, and John had banished those thoughts as he progressed to the next stage.

Anger.

This one had been easy to identify. It started with the fish at Sherlock's memorial dinner, and then progressed until he lashed out at almost anyone when they spoke of Sherlock. He had finally fallen into a sullen silence and resolutely ignored his phone for several days until Lestrade forced his way into the flat one day, using the key Sherlock had given him just in case there was an interesting case late at night and the DI couldn't wake them by pounding on the door. John had been busy cleaning the flat, tossing out the experiments that had a high likelihood of becoming toxic while scrubbing every nook and cranny he could find. This had kept his mind preoccupied at least, until Lestrade so rudely interrupted and announced that he wasn't coping well. John thought that he was coping very well, thank you very much, and proceeded to tell Lestrade this using profanity and slightly elevated tones. Okay, so slightly elevated may have been an understatement, but John still didn't think that he had deserved Lestrade smacking him and then calling in a grief counselor. John had spent the rest of the evening listening to the lady throw around phrases like "spiritual healing" and "emotional connectedness" all the while glaring at Lestrade.

Afterwards, Lestrade had at least had the courtesy to admit that the counselor was a crack. They had then gone to the pub to do their own counseling with a pint or two to help the process.

Bargaining.

John didn't make deals with the devil, perse, but he certainly didn't pass this stage up. No, within weeks of Sherlock's death, he had thrown himself into his work as a doctor with new vigor. He had applied to a serious surgery which treated a variety of maladies, including those which he had experience treating in Afghanistan. At first, they had been hesitant to hire John on, but he had convinced them and then spent the next week proving his worth in every way possible. Whether it was in performing a complicated surgery without batting an eye, or in calming a shrieking child and having them laughing within minutes, John showed that he was well worth his pay as a doctor. The nurses became quite fond of him, while his fellow doctors admired his skill and manner. And, most important of all, John saved lives. And with each life he saved, each gun or knife wound he patched up, each failing heart he restarted, each dying organ he replaced, he dropped one more chip in the hat. One more mute request that Sherlock come back.

He didn't make it beyond the third stage before the accident. Mycroft thought that, all things considered, this might have been for the best. While Mycroft didn't subscribe to many theories of psychology, he did not doubt that John was well on his way to sinking into a deep, all-encompassing depression. The signs were there, in the frantic way he leapt into work, in the way he collapsed onto the sofa at the end of every workday and simply laid there, unmoving, until he fell asleep and woke up again the next morning to do it all over again.

Mycroft was almost thankful that the accident happened before John's inevitable disintegration. The aftermath of that would have surely been more damaging than what took place in the bowels of the London subway.


	3. The Accident

Many little things had changed in the two months since Sherlock had been gone.

For one, John was allowed as much sleep as he pleased when he was at home. If he came back from the surgery at four in the afternoon and decided to fall onto the sofa and sleep until the next morning, he did just that. No screeching violin at all hours of the night. No being shoved from beneath the covers and hauled out on a chase. Just long, quiet, uninterrupted hours of sleep. He told himself that he preferred it this way.

He was also allowed to eat meals at whatever pace he chose and at whatever location he desired. Even if he did always end up getting take away of some sort. He had tried visiting Angelo's once, but had found that swallowing was much too difficult when you were trying to fight back tears. Since then, he had avoided any place that had strong associations of Sherlock. The flat, of course, couldn't be helped, but he found that it was somewhat of a comfort to have this little haven in which evidence of Sherlock's life so deeply pervaded every corner of the room. John dreaded the day when he woke up and wasn't immediately greeted by the remnants of Sherlock's scent. He had taken to using Sherlock's favorite laundry detergent and body wash in hopes of delaying that day as long as possible. If anyone noticed that he smelled curiously similar to Sherlock, they didn't mention it.

Then there was the matter of transportation. John had always thought their frequent use of cabs was an unnecessary expense, but he also had to admit that using a cab made sense when you were constantly galavanting around the city at all hours of the night. It would be difficult to find any other form of transportation that so easily suited their eccentric schedules. Now, however, John almost exclusively used the tube. It was cheaper, and it got him where he wanted without all the fussing with cabbies for intentionally taking the long route so they could over charge him. What with his job and all, John's schedule was fairly consistent and therefore highly conducive to using the cheapest form of transportation available.

Today, he was seated among the jostling masses, idly flipping through a medical journal as he did his best to ignore the people rubbing against his shoulder or bumping into his legs. He hated the casual contact one was invariably forced to endure on the underground, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. He had been taking this approach more and more often in his daily life, and had found that he was now quite the expert in the "Grit your teeth and ignore it" method of coping. He simply told himself that he was happy and pretended not to notice that he wasn't. It all worked out moderately well by the end of the day.

He was acutely aware of an increased shuddering along the floor of the train. He frowned, his body already tensing up into the sort of hyper-aware state that had marked his years of service as he scanned the vehicle for any obvious signs of danger. He couldn't spot any, but still he didn't go back to reading his magazine. Some instinct buried deep in the back of his mind told him that something was wrong, and he had long since learned not to ignore this feeling. He clutched onto the edge of his seat and calmly pressed aside his momentary feelings of panic. This did not mean, however, that he was in any way less aware of his surroundings. On the contrary, at that moment he could have told any passer by exactly how many people were in this particular section of the tube, and he could have told them exactly how many seconds passed between his first realization that something wasn't right and the actual moment when it all went to hell.

Twenty seven seconds.

In less than half a minute, his world condensed from the jostling motion of the train to the screech of metal scraping across metal, the roar of moving parts being torn from their housing, the shrieks of terrified passengers as they stumbled and collided and fell into one another. Instinctively, John threw out his arms to help keep the people next to him in their seats. He felt bodies slamming into his arms which he had braced against metal poles, but he didn't loosen his grip. The lights over head flickered, but did not quite shut off. They merely dimmed into an eerie glow that intensified the horror movie-esque scene that was left in the wake of the initial shock. Already, John had slipped into his authoritarian doctor mode and had rose from his seat to better survey the scene.

People were groaning and sprawled across the floor. One woman was crying and clutching her head as blood dripped down her cheek. His attention was quickly drawn from her, however, as he heard a pained and panicked shriek coming from the back of the train. He quickly pushed his way towards the sound, knowing the cries of the desperately injured well enough from the hospital and desert. As he navigated his way to the back of the car, he bacame increasingly aware of how devastating whatever misfortune had struck the train had been. The entire back part of the car was a crumpled mess, and wires were hanging from the lacerated metal and sending an occasional stream of sparks into the air. He carefully ducked around the wires as he approached the source of the stuttering sobs.

The sound was coming from a young man, probably no older than 25, who was clutching a profusely bleeding leg. People were gathered around him, one man actually pressing down on the wound to try and stop the bleeding, but most were just milling about in helpless confusion. John shoved his way through the group and knelt down beside the man. He quickly began examining the wound while gently coaxing the man into speaking.

"What's your name?" His fingers gripped the edge of the ragged tear in the man's trousers and ripped the fabric further apart, leaving the man's thigh exposed for his examination.

"An-Andrew Johnson." There was a deep gash in the man's leg which was spewing blood in rhythmic gushes. John looked around and saw the culprit of the laceration, a ragged sheet of metal jutting up from the floor upon which the man had most likely fallen.

"My name is Doctor John Watson. I'm going to take care of you until the medics get here, okay?" He calmly stripped off his belt, instructing the man that had been pressing on the wound earlier to resume what he had been doing. John was only vaguely aware of employees of the underground working to evacuate the passengers into the tunnels outside.

"Okay." The young man was now shaking, and a sweat had broken out across his forehead. Going into shock, then, if the distant tone in his voice was anything to go by. John began winding his belt above the wound in the man's leg, twisting it into a complex series of loops as he worked.

"You can let go of the wound now," he instructed the older man. He nodded and pulled away, wiping his hands down his thighs in an effort to wash away the blood. "Could you give him your jacket? And see if you can find a bottle of water." The man nodded once again, carefully wrapping his coat over the younger man's shoulders before wondering into the small crowd of passengers waiting to be escorted into the tunnels. While he was away, John finished his make-shift tourniquet, using the young man's belt to thread through one of the loops. This way, he could tighten and loosen the tourniquet, allowing a little blood flow to the lower part of his limb so as to reduce the risk of nerve damage by lack of oxygen to the cells. All the while, he calmly spoke to the young man.

"I think you're going to be okay, Andrew. The cut's pretty bad, but the medics should be able to take care of you. You're doing really well, just try to stay calm for me, okay?"

The man nodded, but his gaze had now turned bleary, fogged with both tears and pending unconsciousness. John maintained his steady stream of one-sided conversation, if only because he had learned that it helped people focus on something other than their pain. He couldn't completely relieve the man of the pain, of course, but he was hoping that the combination of endorphins and distraction would keep him out of complete misery. John became aware of two men looming overhead, and he looked up at them. One was the man he had sent off for water, the other was an ashen-faced employee.

"If blood makes you pass out, please leave. I'd rather not have to deal with a concussed fool on top of this."

"Um," the man stammered. "I need you to-to evacuate the, er, train."

"No can do, sorry. If we try and move him, we run the risk of increasing the rate of blood loss. He needs to stay here, horizontal, until the medics get here and can take care of him. So what I need you to do is to call up to the big men upstairs and have them get the emergency response team down here right away. Okay?"

The man nodded vigorously before dashing out into the tunnel himself, supposedly to follow John's orders. The other man knelt next to Andrew and and began tucking more layers of clothes he had collected from the other passengers around his shoulders.

"You said your name was Doctor Watson?"

"Yeah, you can call me John, though. What's yours?"

"Bill. Bill Murray."

"Thanks for the help, Bill. You're awfully competent for a stander-by." John carefully loosened the tourniquet just a bit, allowing blood to ease past the dam he had created. He held it there for a few seconds before pulling it tight once again.

Bill gave a light laugh. "This sort of thing is actually pretty par for the course in my book. I was a med tech in Afghanistan for a bit."

"Really? I served as a doctor there. Small world."

Bill gave a little grunt of agreement as he worked the top off the bottle of water and coaxed Andrew into taking a sip. The young man was still clinging to consciousness, but only barely. John just hoped that the lack of awareness stemmed from pain and not blood loss or head trauma.

"Did you see what happened?"

"Not at all," John stated while adjusting his grip on the belt. "I felt a bit of a shuddering just before the crash, but I didn't notice anything that could've caused it. How did the rest of the passengers look?"

"Minor enough injuries. A few bruises and some broken bones, I think. Maybe a couple of head injuries, but they mostly looked fine. Shaken up, but fine."

"Right." John gave a tight smile as he worked the tourniquet loose once again. He was beginning to grow worried now. The response team should have been there by now. "Do you smell something funny?" John had noticed a peculiar itching sensation in his nose and throat, but he had ignored it thus far, assuming that it was just residual smoke from the initial collision.

"You know, I was just thinking that there was something funny about the air down here. Do you think maybe one of the gas mains broke?"

"That's exactly what I think."

"Shit." Bill rose and stepped out into the tunnel to look for any signs of the response team. He walked back into the train, a slightly grim expression on his face. "I don't see hair nor hide of them yet. Do you think we should try carrying him up?"

"I don't think we'll be able to, not without having to let go of the tourniquet and risking him bleeding to death. Besides," John lightly coughed, "by the time we make it back topside, it won't have made much of a difference. It's too long of a walk when you're being slowed down by an injured man."

"Right." Bill was now looking about worriedly, his brow furrowed in concern as he looked outside in hopes of seeing the source of the gas leak. The tunnel, however, was too dark and too much of a wreck to see for certain where the smell was coming from. "What do we do now?"

"Do you mind losing your shirt, too?" John asked with a bit of a grin. Bill rolled his eyes but began stripping himself of his shirt, too.

"You know, John, I'm beginning to think that this is an elaborate plot for you to get me naked."

"Of course it is. Now shut up and tear that into thick strips. Three, if you would."

Bill gave a light laugh that was punctuated with a cough as he ripped his shirt into bits. Following John's train of thought, he folded them into bands and soaked them in the water from the bottle before wrapping one around Andrew's face, covering his mouth and nose, and doing the same for himself and John. John grunted his thanks, his hands too busy caring for Andrew to tie the make-shift gas mask off for himself.

"What now?" Bill asked, his voice slightly muffled by his mask.

"Now," John said, "You go topside and tell the rescue teams about the gas leak and try to get them down here as fast as you can."

"Are you a moron? I'm not leaving you alone down here with nobody but an unconscious man to help you."

"Bill, it doesn't make sense to have two men down here when one can do the job by himself just fine. Besides, the sooner the rescue team can find us, the better, and I don't trust those bumbling staff members to give good directions. Probably they don't even know the difference between east and west."

"I still don't like it..."

"Well, tough nuts. You're going to go, and you're going to hurry your arse up, too."

John had been told back in his days at university that he would make a good dom if he ever fell upon hard times. Apparently, there was something about the tone of his voice at certain moments that made disobeying him nearly impossible. Apparently, he had unintentionally pulled that dom voice out on Bill, because he was suddenly turning his back to John and headed for the door once again.

"Just be careful, yeah?" Bill asked over his shoulder.

Even though he knew it was obscured by the mask, John smiled, a slightly bitter edge to it that he was glad Bill couldn't see. "Of course. Always." He failed to mention that saving a man's life in a wrecked train that was quickly filling up with noxious gases was a walk in the park compared to confronting psychopathic serial bombers with a penchant for taking hostages. Bill nodded and disappeared out the door, only the sound of his retreating footsteps telling John that he hadn't been permanently swallowed by the darkness outside the car.

"It's just you and me now, Andrew," he murmured to the young man. Andrew had finally given up the fight and had fallen unconscious. John quietly continued alternating between letting blood flow and pulling the tourniquet tight once again, like a valve controlling whether a man lived or died, lost a limb or kept it. The minutes ground onward, and John could feel his eyes beginning to water as the gas grew even more thick in the car. He took a moment to be thankful that the wires overhead had at least stopped sparking. He would rather not be caught in what would essentially have been a grenade stuffed into a tin can, thank you very much.

Even through the mask, John could smell the thick odor of the gas permeating the car. It was the harsh, bitter scent of rotten eggs that made him want to gag. He refrained, however, fighting back the reflex as he had learned to do in med school. The human body stank, that was a fact of life, and he had long since mastered working beyond his gag reflex so he could do his job without any sort of unfortunate incidents. This talent of his had become exceptionally beneficial during his days in the military, but he didn't think that mattered much at the moment. Actually, the fact that he had recalled that little bit of information at all while in such a stressful situation spoke volumes as to how well his body was coping with the gas inhalation. He could feel the muscles in his arms starting to tremble, and the panic that he had been fighting down for so long was starting to resurface with a vengeance. His heart was thrumming violently in his chest, and he was no longer sure if it was from adrenaline or gas inhalation. He was now coughing every couple of minutes, his lungs violently protesting the intrusion of the foreign substance, but the fits of coughing merely made him suck in even more of the gas. It had become a ruthless cycle: He would cough until he had expelled every reserve of air in his body, and then desperately gasp in as much air as he could, and then begin coughing once again. Tears were streaking down his face as he fought to maintain control, but it was quickly abandoning him.

His hands had now begun shaking, and he could no longer properly operate the tourniquet. He supposed that it was lucky that he had noticed this before it was too late, because at least this way he could properly bind it off so that Andrew wouldn't bleed to death. Now he just ran the risk of losing the limb. And still bleeding to death if the damned medics didn't get down there soon enough. John woozily fumbled his way up to Andrew's head, gripping the bottle of water and sprinkling a fresh coating of water over the fabric covering his mouth and nose. John fought back the urge to laugh hysterically as he thought that, if anyone stumbled into the tube right at this moment, it would look as if he were some sort of a sadist running around attempting to water board random strangers. Instead, he began lightly giggling, the sound of his chuckles mixing with the harsh coughs wracking their way through his throat. He had grown accustomed to the constant itching in his nose and throat, but now the itch was accompanied by a burning pain that added to his watering eyes. He vaguely thought that, if asked about the tears, he would blame them all on his tear ducts' natural reaction to the gas. Because he certainly hadn't been crying out of pain. Nope. Not at all. Not him. Not John Watson.

His arms finally gave out on him, no longer able to support his body. His chest and head thunked to the cool metal ground, and for a moment he was relieved to be down there, down where the rocking of the car wasn't so obvious. He closed his eyes and let the shivers running through his nerves and muscles take over. He laid there, fingers spasming open and closed against the dirty floor while distantly wondering where his good old friend Bill had run off to. Bill was a nice chap. Good and dependable. He rather liked Bill. Liked him a lot. He wondered if Bill would be impressed by his ability to suppress his gag reflex. He thought that Bill would like that. Bill seemed like the sort. Bill. That's a funny name, he thought to himself. Billy Bill Bilbo Baggins. He began giggling anew at the thought of Bill dressed as a hobbit, and this time his laughter wouldn't subside no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. Eventually, he gave up and let the hysterics take hold. They only grew worse as the hallucinations began.

There was a time when John would have been bothered to find that he could see the sounds of his and Andrew's breathing curling in colorful circles through the air. There was even a time when he would have been surprised to hear tubas blaring when there obviously weren't any tubas in the general vicinity. At the moment, however, he found it all very pleasant. The tubas reminded him of the time he had spent playing clarinet in his school band, and the colors were awfully pretty. He dimly felt as if he should be worried about something, but he felt too joyfully euphoric at the moment to be too concerned about it all. Someone else could sort that out. He was busy playing with the colors. He found that, if he inhaled really deeply and loudly, he could make even more colors, until the whole ceiling was covered in thick bubbles of them. He giggled, and that made _even more _colors stream out into the air. It was only when he tried to reach up to catch some of them that he realized his whole body had gone numb and he couldn't move even a fingertip. This frightened him a lot, and he began trying to force himself to move. All he managed to do was take shuddering, panting, terrified breaths that reminded him of how badly his chest and lungs hurt. And his head, oh, his head had started hurting so badly, too. It was a screaming sort of pain, the kind that made electric jolt of red crash through his mind and left him shuddering and sobbing.

The numbness was quickly being replaced by something else. Something like his cells were screaming. He realized that he was dying, then. Every fiber of your being doesn't tear itself apart like this unless you're dying. He was filled with a sort of dread, then, a sort of vague fear that made his mind run cold. He had heard that his life should be flashing before his eyes now, but it wasn't. He was alone. No memories to carry him into the next world. No familiar faces relating their experiences together. Just John. Lonely, sad John. Broken, fading John. John the doctor. John the soldier. John the pet. John John Johnny all by himself. He didn't even think he could remember anyone else now. It had always been him. Him alone fighting in a world full of Nobody Else.

As the colors faded and the blackness took him, John rather thought that he liked this new blankness. Somehow, erasing everything was less painful than remembering. Remembering the last face which clung to the edges of his memory. The dark hair and searing eyes that made him ache in every hollow of his bones. He no longer knew the name for that face, just that he wanted it to go away. Just that he wanted the heart-crushing misery it brought to leave him.


	4. Doctors and Dog Tags

**Author: This bit was tricky to write, as I'm no specialist in how medical personnel operate when on the field. As such, please forgive any inaccuracies; I did research, but I would not presume to know the finer details of how the RAMC operates. **

Bill walked as briskly as he could manage without increasing his respiratory rate too much. Gasping the gas into his lungs would only be counter-productive, and so he closely monitored his pace to make sure that he was making the most efficient progress possible. Even through his mask, he could taste the bitter stench of the gas. He could only imagine how John and his patient were faring in the closed quarters of the tube. The thought renewed his sense of urgency and he picked up his pace just a bit, all the while regulating his breathing into as slow a rhythm as possible.

Something about the doctor was irritatingly familiar. Like when you recognize an actor's voice but can't place a name to go with the face. It was that annoying sort of half-remembrance that had him mentally running through every name and face he could recall from his time in Afghanistan. He was sure that he had run into the doctor sometime while in the service; it was the only plausible explanation for his vague recollection of the man. He just couldn't find the time or the place.

But a voice.

_"Get away from me. Go help him!"_

When John had ordered him out of the car for one jarring second Bill had fallen back into the desert, back into one of the many scenes of his time in the military.

_"It's just a shoulder. I'll be fine."_

As he worked his way towards the exit, he recalled that day once again, bringing it to the front of his mind with unwanted clarity. He had just transferred units, had literally just stepped out of the transport that had carried him to his new base when sirens exploded overhead. He had been thrust into a different jeep which sped onto the dirt road as soon as soon as he had taken his seat. Apparently, the scene would be pretty bad if he were being taken to it without even meeting the head doctor first.

Sure enough, as they arrived he saw flames licking at the edges of a humvee which was rolled onto its side. Another was stopped in the middle of the road, bullets shot through the metal siding. He cringed as he recalled the men laying in the dirt, some burnt, others bleeding from bullet wounds, others sporting a combination of the two. He had ran to the nearest man, just to find that he was already dead. He had then moved to the next nearest one, quickly checking his vitals and searching for the most pressing of injuries. The man had only sustained injuries to his leg from shrapnel; they didn't pose a major threat unless they became infected. Bill had set to caring for him all the while listening to the shouted orders of the nearest medical officer. He could only see the back of the man's helmet, but it was obvious that he was the one in charge simply by watching how all the other medical personnel followed his instructions without question.

And then all hell broke loose.

They had been told that the threat of insurgents had been eliminated, but bullets had begun raining down on them as the med team struggled to take care of the casualties from the last bout of gunfire. Bill cursed under his breath and quickly dragged his man under the cover of the overturned vehicle, ignoring his pained moans, and then dropped to a crawl to help pull more patients towards shelter. The officer, he observed, was still working frantically to stabilize the soldier he had been working on before the gunfire began. He had hunched lower in an effort to make himself less of a target, but otherwise he hadn't moved any closer to shelter. Looking about to make sure that no one else needed his help more, Bill crawled over to the officer and his patient, silently cursing the desert for its lack of proper foliage to use as cover.

He was close enough to the doctor that, when the bullet ripped it way through his shoulder, the man's blood splattered across Bill's face. The man gave an audible gasp, rolling himself to the side as he collapsed so as to avoid crushing the man for whom he had been tending. Bill blinked in shock, pausing for only a moment before crawling his way over to the doctor. The man was pressing firmly on his shoulder in an effort to staunch the flow of blood, but the patch of crimson was still spreading beneath his fingers. Bill knelt over him and tried pulling his hand away to get a look at the wound, but the doctor hissed in protest.

"Get away from me. Go help him!"

"You've been shot."

"It's just a shoulder. I'll be fine."

Bill gave him a wary look, but nodded and moved to the soldier nevertheless. The doctor probably knew the severity of his injury perfectly well and wouldn't have insisted that he move to treat the soldier if it was all that bad. He picked up where the doctor had left off, doing his best to stop the bullet hole in his stomach from pumping even more of his blood out of his body. Once he had finished off the binding that the doctor had started, he called for another medic to help him move the man to shelter. Most of the gunfire had abated by now, but the occasional bullet still pinged against the metal of the overturned vehicle. Bill quickly noted how many additional casualties they had before turning his attention back to the field. He was surprised to see that the doctor hadn't moved himself to cover yet. If it was just a simple wound to the shoulder, he should have been able to crawl behind the car like everyone else had. And yet there he laid, a pool of blood quickly growing around him. Bill cursed and crawled back towards him, realizing his mistake in assuming that the doctor wasn't a martyr.

"You stupid bastard," he grunted while dragging the appropriate supplies out of his med kit.

"Didn't have a chance...hit the subclavian artery." The man's eyes were sliding closed, but he continued to roll them open to stare up at Bill. Bill, meanwhile, ignored him and yelled for some assistance as he began treating the wound. There wasn't much they could do for him out on the field, but he could at least try to keep the man from bleeding to death until they could get a transport over.

In the movies, a wound to the shoulder was treated as something to be brushed off as a minor annoyance, like a bee sting or a stubbed toe. In real life, a shoulder wound, particularly one to the left shoulder, often resulted in death. Bill knew this. He should have thought of this the moment the doctor tried shaking him off, but he had trusted the doctor to know his body's limits. Obviously, that trust had been poorly placed. He felt slightly panicked as he realized that he was out of his depth in treating the man; he was just a med tech, after all. He had been an exceptionally good one, but still. Patching holes in arteries was definitely not in his job description. He had never been more relieved than when another medical officer arrived and took his place. Bill remained on hand to deliver supplies as needed and offer an extra set of hands, but otherwise he washed his hands of the mess. Metaphorically speaking, of course; it was going to take a lot more than a simple scrubbing to get the doctor's blood off his hands and forearms, out from in under his fingernails and in the little crevices of his palms.

"Bloody hell, John, you're a mess." The officer was frowning deeply as she tried to ease the tide of blood.

"I envy your bedside manner, Trish." Apparently, the shock and endorphins were working to make the man slightly more lucid than he had been when Bill had found him. His face was ghastly pale under his helmet, standing in stark contrast to the the dark blood smeared up his neck and splattered across cheeks and mouth, and his eyes looked glassy around the blue irises, but he was at least able to focus on the woman while she labored over his shoulder.

"You just be quiet and focus on not dying, yeah?" Her response got a tight smile from the man, but he followed her orders and remained quiet, only giving small groans and whimpers as his ravaged flesh was further tormented by her ministrations. Finally, more jeeps came squealing onto the scene, including the med van with more supplies to help the doctor. He was quickly lifted onto a stretcher and rushed to the base where Bill and a full team worked to patch him up enough for transport to a hospital. By the time he was loaded onto the chopper with the other seriously wounded patients, Bill thought he had seen more of his blood outside his body than could have possibly been inside it to begin with. A grim silence had overcome the med staff as they worked on recovering from the day's events. Every now and again, he would catch snatches of conversation about the officer. From the hushed tones, the prognosis wasn't good; if the injury didn't kill him right off, then the heightened risk of infection would eventually.

Bill snapped himself out of his memories as he caught sight of the exit looming up ahead. He had now gotten far enough away from the leak that the air was breathable without the mask, and so he tossed it aside. He quickly climbed the ladder up into the streaming morning light once again, and he was immediately greeted with a scene of chaos and confusion. The paramedics were rushing to treat the most severely injured patients while another group stood off to the side donning the appropriate gear to go down into the underground. Apparently, the delay had been due to the detection of the gas leak. Bill pushed his way past the people milling around and forced his shoulder into the group arranging masks over their faces.

"Sir, you need to step back."

"Just listen for a second, 'kay? There's two men down there, due north. They're in the fifth car. One has a cut on his left leg that looks like it's nicked his femoral artery. The other will need treatment for gas inhalation, as will the first."

The man in charge nodded sharply before turning to address his group of subordinates. Within the space of a few seconds, they were climbing down into the tunnel themselves, disappearing into the darkness below. Bill watched them somewhat apprehensively. He had felt off-kilter since thinking back on that first day at the base. He didn't think this man was the same one; it was highly unlikely, at least, but he couldn't shake the sense of deja vu which was making him feel slightly off balance. He wished for a moment that he had gotten a good look at the army doctor's face before it had been so pale and covered in blood as to be unrecognizable. Then he would know for sure whether or not the man in the underground was the same as the one in the desert. Then he could settle the niggling noise in the back of his skull.

He vaguely felt that, if this was the same man, it would be an awful shame to have saved his life in the desert just to let him die less than two years later on the underground.

Much faster than he would have expected, the emergency response team was pulling the young man named Andrew into the morning light. He looked far too pale, but other than that Bill couldn't judge much regarding his condition. They had put an oxygen mask over his face in the place of the make-shift gas mask, and were working on threading various IVs into his arm. John was pulled up next, and Bill was shocked to see how poorly he looked. He had been relieved to see Andrew because, if he looked mostly normal for having been stabbed in the leg, then surely John should be in better condition. On the contrary, the paramedics were having to scrape vomit from his mouth and nose while they prepared the oxygen mask, and his skin had become more grey than white or tan.

Bill caught himself mentally cataloging each of these symptoms and attempting to gauge the severity of John's reaction to the gas. He suspected that the vomit came from a seizure, probably a grand mal, as this was the most common type associated with gas inhalation. Probably he had aspiration, too, then. That raised the chances of bacterial infections in his already damaged lungs, depending on how much of the bile he had actually inhaled. He winced, attempting to force himself out of his military mind set. It wasn't productive to be diagnosing a random stranger, he told himself, especially not when he was no longer authorized to help treat them in any capacity. Accepting this became even more difficult as one of the paramedics began shouting that John had slipped into cardiac arrest. The chaos of the scene intensified tenfold, then, as they rushed to strip John of his shirt and prepare the defibrillator. Bill's heart dropped as he noticed that, even from this distance, he could still see a thick scar crawling across John's left shoulder. One of the medics ripped off a set of metal dog tags he had wrapped around his neck and, in their haste to restart John's heart, dropped them on the ground. Bill watched, an unwarranted sort of apprehension stealing over him as he watched the medics slamming the metal pads into his chest over and over again, all the while rushing him to the ambulance. He couldn't see whether or not they had any success as the doors to the back slammed closed and the ambulance drove off, sirens blaring.

The area was quickly surrounded by coppers trying to herd the growing crowd into order. Those needing treatment were directed to one side while everyone else was pushed behind a barricade. Bill slowly walked towards the area for those waiting for medical attention; his lungs at least would need a good checking-over before he could go home. As he was walking, he stopped and picked up the metal chain with two metal disks attached. He carefully examined them, reading the name inscribed in the metal: Watson, John H. He carefully tucked them into his pocket for safekeeping until he could return them to their owner.


	5. Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary

Mycroft, of course, knew of the accident as soon as it was called in. He had immediately diverted his attention to the incident; it had potential terrorist attack written all over it, and was therefore worth a check-up. His sources, however, confirmed that it was due to a fault in the track system. One of the rails had become damaged, probably from age and wear, and it wouldn't have been a problem except that a set of wheels on the train had also been worn down. From the information he had gathered, these two factors had combined to make one of the cars buckle, and then the car behind it had run into the rear of the car. All perfectly ordinary occurrences, really. That is, until one noted how the force of the collision had put enough strain on one of the many gas mains buried beneath the city, causing a rupture.

Now this would be tedious to clean up. The populace did not like violent reminders that the systems which powered their city could be deadly if not properly cared for. Mycroft suspected that much of his next few days would be spent delegating various public-soothing jobs to his personnel. He would have to request that Anthea organize a meeting between one of his people and a council member or two, just for appearances. Tedious. At least he wouldn't be at the forefront of the public's outrage; one of the many benefits of his job was that he never had to hide because no one ever knew that he was responsible.

He was preparing to begin said delegating when Anthea lightly cleared her throat. "Sir."

"Yes?"

"We've received reports that only two men were seriously injured in the accident."

"That's good. Arrange for them to receive a compensation of some sort-"

"Sir, one of the men on scene says that John Watson is among the injured parties."

Ah. Now he understood. Of course. Anthea wouldn't have troubled him with such trivialities as injuries unless they were of someone important. And at this particular juncture in his life, John was ranked as the second most important person to be cared for. Only because Mycroft could no longer care for Sherlock, of course. When Sherlock had left, John had essentially replaced him in his familial standing. Whether or not he wanted to or knew it.

"Arrange for transport to the hospital, Anthea. I'll finish up this bit of business and then we'll be off."

She nodded her assent and quickly typed a message on her blackberry, presumably to call for the chauffer. Mycroft finished writing out the initial phase of the post-disaster (such a strong word for such a small incident) plan, and then pulled his coat on over his suit jacket. Together, he and Anthea left the small building from which Mycroft ran his operations. He had never understood any government's need for large, loud structures to house their home bases. They simply made easier targets and used up valuable resources in maintaining them. Mycroft believed that a government could be perfectly well-run using a single building with a small staff, if that staff was exceptionally gifted. And his staff was possibly some of the most well-gifted in the world.

The rode in silence, Anthea intercepting any updates regarding John's whereabout and condition and then relating them to Mycroft as she saw fit. Mycroft maintained his calm composure as she told him that John had just been revived from cardiac arrest only minutes beforehand, but he was squirming anxiously on the inside. Slipping into cardiac arrest implied a slew of other maladies, maladies which only made his recovery less likely. He hated to think of what Sherlock would do if he came home just to find that John had died while he was away. He suspected that Sherlock considered John his reward for getting whatever business he had with Moriarty's crime syndicate settled; if he was denied that reward after spending so much time fighting for it...Well, Mycroft didn't see that Sherlock would have much faith left in the cosmos after that.

"You had best call up Harriet, Anthea. I doubt she has heard of the incident yet. We can pick her up on the way so she's on-hand should any medical decisions need to be made."

"Already done, sir. We'll be arriving at her house in a few minutes. She sounded...less than healthy, though."

"Oh?" Mycroft frowned. It wouldn't do to have an ill sister making decisions for and ill brother. Nevertheless, her presence would be necessary should the physicians have any questions regarding John's treatment.

They arrived at Harriet's flat only minutes later, as Anthea had promised. It was a rather shabby affair in comparison to what she had owned before her divorce, but then again, she had essentially stopped her practice at the law firm since the separation with Clara had taken place. Mycroft had kept tabs on her from a distance, only to make sure that she didn't serve as a negative influence on Sherlock, but he had never taken any exceptional interest in the woman. Essentially, she was merely a blight on the otherwise normal Watson family. John's parents had passed away some years ago, but they had been known throughout their community as a nice couple, and his father had been an honored member of the RAMC, also. That Harriet had somehow stemmed from such people was beyond Mycroft's comprehension. Just a quirk of genetics, he supposed. Probably if he dug back far enough into the Watson family tree, he would find other black sheep just like her.

Anthea was gently escorting a rather disheveled looking woman to the car. Mycroft frowned as he took in the sight of her darkly circled eyes and rumpled clothing. She looked as if she was coming off a three day bender. No, she _was_ coming off a three day bender. He scowled distastefully as she flopped gracelessly into the car, nearly slopping a cup of coffee across the leather of the seat.

"Harriet, it's been a while since we've last spoken."

"Oh, Christ, what'd you want now? I already told you that I don't know if John's gay or not, and, frankly, if you want to get in his pants, you're just going to have to grow a pair and ask him, mate. Abducting his family isn't going to put you in his good graces."

Mycroft did his best to stifle an exasperated sigh. He had invited Harriet over for brunch one day, and she had been most obstinate even then. That was before the divorce was finalized and she had been left with essentially nothing. Even her job at the firm had suffered due to the scandal surrounding her alcoholism. Now that everything had fallen to pieces and all she had left was John and a meager amount of savings, she had become nearly intolerable.

"I have no interest in your brother other than that of friendly intent. John was unfortunately involved in an accident this, morning, and we will be taking you to the hospital to be on hand should any medical emergencies requiring your input occur."

"John's...hurt?"

"Yes. From our reports, he's being cared for right at this moment, but his condition is critical."

"Bloody hell." Harriet threw back her cup as if it contained something stronger than coffee, and Mycroft had to exchange a glance with Anthea to ensure that it wasn't. It wouldn't do to have Harriet drunk at the hospital. Actually, he was beginning to wonder if the woman didn't need to be hospitalized herself. She looked sickly, even underneath the haggard layers that could be attributed to the hang over.

"What'd he do this time? Take a bullet for a thug in a gang fight? Jump in front of a cab to save a kitten?"

"There was an accident on the underground which caused a gas leak. He stayed behind to help one of the wounded, and as such suffered injuries related to gas inhalation."

"Bastard can't keep himself out of trouble for one minute. You can imagine what growing up with him as your older brother was like."

"I'm sure that you were no less tedious."

She shot him a dirty look before stiffening in her seat. "I'm going to be sick."

Mycroft didn't bother stifling his exasperated sigh as Anthea told the driver to pull off the road so Harriet could do her business outside the car. They had to repeat this process multiple times while the car threaded its way through the London traffic, and with each instance Mycroft became more wary as Harriet's awareness and health deteriorated. Before they were even halfway to the hospital, she was sweating profusely and shaking in her seat, all the while cursing John and his untimely heroics. Mycroft was beginning to think that not having her at the hospital at all would have been better.

"Harriet, as you are aware, my brother recently passed, but I was fortunate in that we had one final conversation before his death. In this discussion, Sherlock asked that, should anything ever happen to him, I look after John."

"Mm." He took Harriet's non-commental grunt as permission to continue, and so he did.

"I'm sure you're aware that you're not in the best of health at this particular moment, and would probably not be able to make important decisions using the proper consideration they required-"

"Are you saying that I'm not able to look after John?"

"Not at all. I was simply saying that I would be more than willing to take the burden off your hands, should you feel too ill to do it on your own. I believe you will find that I'm currently much better suited to such decision-making should the need arise."

Harriet stared at him warily across the car, brow furrowing as if searching for an ulterior motive of some sort. "How?"

"I believe a simple name-change and some alterations in records would suffice. It's all quite simple, actually. I can have it all arranged before we even arrive at the hospital. Of course, once John is well and no longer in need of medical care, I would gladly change everything back to its proper order."

"So you'd be..."

"Claiming him as my brother, yes. You, of course, can remain on hand to visit him as you see fit. Just for legal purposes you would merely be an old friend of his or the like."

"I don't know..." She frowned, still searching for a catch of some sort. Mycroft was somewhat stymied to see her so hesitant; apparently, mistrust ran in the family. "It sounds a little fishy."

"I assure you, there is nothing "fishy" about it. I will simply take over your legal responsibilities concerning your brother's treatment. This means that you won't have to deal with any of the paper work or financial responsibilities should I decide that private care would be better suited for John."

She remained quiet for a lengthy amount of time thereafter, weighing all the different options. Clearly, despite her declarations otherwise, she was truly concerned for her brother. Mycroft knew that she would agree eventually, but not until she had decided for herself that the change would indeed be in John's best interests.

"Fine. Go ahead. But don't mess with the middle name; that's a family one."

"Of course." With a small nod from Mycroft, Anthea was punching in the proper codes to initiate the whole process. Mycroft had drawn the sequence up some time ago, immediately after the incident at the pool, in fact, but had never had reason to put it into use. His contingency plans rarely ever were, but he found comfort in knowing that he was prepared for most disasters. He had even developed a team which was currently applying their best knowledge on what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse. It was more a humorous side project than actual work, but, well, one couldn't deny that it might come in useful eventually.

They arrived at the hospital with no further incident. Mycroft walked into the building to begin inquiring after John while Anthea tended to Harriet, helping her collapse into the nearest chair to miserably suffer through her hang over. Fortunately, Mycroft had no problems with the system rejecting his falsified documents, and so John officially became known as John Holmes. A simple and elegant solution to any foreseeable problems of which Mycroft was quite proud. He returned to the waiting area after receiving word that John was still being treated and settled in for a wait. Of course, he also used the time productively. There were a great many threads to be pulled that morning, and he couldn't let a familial crisis distract him from such important matters.

He had been quietly sitting and laboring over his iPhone when he heard the familiar voice of one Detective Inspector Lestrade talking to the receptionist. He seemed to be arguing about something and, if Mycroft knew Lestrade, it was likely about a certain "missing" John Watson. Mycroft quickly rose from his chair and walked over to the desk to greet Lestrade hoping to intercept him before he could cause too much of a fuss. Of course, he had probably been told by one of the coppers on the scene that John had been involved. Mycroft was beginning to realize that John's rather social nature was going to make the ruse more difficult to uphold if only because he would surely have visitors calling repeatedly for a John Watson that supposedly wasn't present at the hospital.

"Lestrade."

"Mycroft?" Lestrade turned around. A faint hint of red had already begun blooming up the back of his neck, Mycroft noted. Stress, he thought, and anxiety.

"I heard about John's involvement in the accident and decided that I ought to check up on him. Would you like to join me in the waiting room?"

"Yes, I just, well, she says they don't have a-"

"No need to worry, Inspector. I've already sorted through it once before. John's still being treated, but they said that we could see him once he's been stabilized." Mycroft had been gently coaxing Lestrade away from the reception desk while he had been speaking, and he calmly seated himself and Lestrade a fair distance from the desk, just so prying ears couldn't hear.

"I swear, every time I have to come here it's like they're just getting more incompetent. How could they lose a patient in the records like that?"

"Actually, they haven't lost a patient because, according to their records, no John Watson was ever admitted."

"Come again?" Lestrade was frowning deeply, a combination of concern and confusion, most likely. He and John had grown quite close since Sherlock forced their acquaintance.

"Once I heard of the accident and John's involvement, I collected Harriet, John's sister, from her flat to accompany me here in case her judgment in a medical procedure was needed. However, I found her...incapacitated, and so I transplanted John's surname for my own, thus enabling me to intervene should it be necessary."

"You...Mycroft, that's illegal!"

"Think of it more in terms of me temporarily adopting John as my brother. Really, Lestrade, it's quite harmless. Harriet agreed to it beforehand."

"Yes, and with what amount of cajoling?"

"Hardly any whatsoever. Really, Lestrade, do you trust her," he gestured towards Harriet, whom currently had her face buried in a rubbish bin, "to care for John better than me?"

Lestrade hesitated, throwing a worried glance in Harriet's direction. "I still don't like it."

"It's only temporary. Once John has been cared for, I will change everything back into its proper order."

"Right." Lestrade was lightly tapping his index finger on the arm of his chair, a wholly irritating nervous habit, but Mycroft thought that he could forgive him for the time being. He was under a significant amount of stress, after all. "Why the sudden interest in John, anyway?"

"I promised Sherlock."

They lapsed into silence while they both thought of Sherlock; Lestrade doing so in regret and bitter memory, whereas Mycroft simply cursed him for leaving such a mess in his wake and wished him well in whatever adventures he was currently immersed in. If Sherlock arrived home unharmed after all this, then Mycroft was going to force him home for every family dinner following that day, and for every birthday and holiday thereafter. And he would make sure that something other than plum pudding was served for dessert. He was pulled out of his plots of vengeance by the sound of a doctor clearing his throat.

"Mycroft Holmes?" The name was uttered with the usual uncertain tone, as if they couldn't believe that this was an actual man's name. Mycroft merely rose from his seat and strode to address the physician.

"Yes?"

"Your brother has been stabilized and moved into a private room, as you requested, but before we let you see him, I would like to take a moment to talk about his injuries and treatment options."

"Of course." Mycroft strolled after the man, following him a short distance down the corridor into the doctor's office. He noted that Lestrade wore a vague look of apprehension and discomfort, while Harriet merely appeared miffed that she hadn't been invited to join in the discussion. Mycroft ignored their reactions in favor of turning his complete attention to the matter at hand. Their disapproval could be dealt with later; as of now, John was all that mattered. He even put his phone on silent for the duration of the meeting.


	6. Forgetting Yourself

John was sleeping when Mycroft and the others were finally allowed into his room. He actually looked slightly better than Mycroft had anticipated; despite the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, he appeared reasonably well. Of course, with gas inhalation, most of the damage is internal, as explained by the doctor. To quote the physician, his lungs were a "bloody mess," and they had not yet been able to evaluate the damage to his brain. Preliminary scans had shown trauma related to oxygen deprivation, but the effects of this had yet to be determined. They would have to wait until John woke up to find this out.

Harriet had immediately settled herself next to John upon entering the room whereas Lestrade stood slightly off to the side of John's bed. Mycroft took position next to the window where he could keep an eye on John while also unobtrusively fielding emails on his phone. Harriet cast him a nasty glare, but he simply ignored her. He didn't understand why he should be expected to stand around uselessly while waiting. Time was valuable, and it couldn't be wasted when there were productive ways of using it. Besides, he had ended up staying with John longer than either Harriet or Lestrade. Harriet had been forced to leave when one of the nurses caught her vomiting into a bin; due to the increased risk of John catching a respiratory infection, she was told to leave for his safety. Mycroft had assured her before she left that Anthea would send her updates regarding John's condition. Lestrade had left when his shift at the Yard had started. Mycroft extended the same courtesy to him, promising that he would notify the DI as soon as John's condition changed. So, in the end, it was just Mycroft watching over John's sleeping form.

He vaguely wondered how John would react to hearing of his interference. Considering that John seemed a far more reasonable person than his sister, Mycroft hoped that he would see the logic in it and understand. He likely would once he saw how ill his sister had become. Mycroft had even assigned the woman a small security detail of her own just to make sure she didn't collapse in the street on her way home. If she was that bad off, then John couldn't deny the wisdom in removing her familial responsibilities.

He was going on his fifth hour of standing next to the window before John began showing signs of coming around. As soon as his head rolled on the pillow and he gave a low groan, Mycroft had come to his side and punched the button which would call John's doctor to the room. He had yet to open his eyes, but he was swallowing harshly and shifting in the bed, all the while giving choked moans. Mycroft stood by his side, unsure of what to do. He supposed that the doctor would be there soon enough, but in the meantime it was difficult to watch John struggle so without intervening in some way. As always, Mycroft had to remind himself that he couldn't fix everything, and settled for gently sliding his hand into John's. This is what was always done in the movies, after all.

The physician arrived just as John peeled his eyes open and blinked blearily up at the ceiling. His hand raised to rub at his eyes, but it stopped when it struck the face mask. John gave a little noise of confusion and fumbled with the thing as if trying to pull it off. The doctor quickly pressed John's hand back down onto the bed, causing John to jerk in surprise as his gaze shifted to the physician.

"You shouldn't mess with the oxygen mask, Doctor Holmes. You need it."

Mycroft felt a faint pang of panic as John's brow furrowed in confusion. He looked utterly perplexed, and Mycroft feared that he would expose the ruse. Then again, he could always find some lie to cover the mess up once again. Doctors trusted an official looking document significantly more than they trusted the word of a patient, anyway.

"John," Mycroft lightly squeezed his hand to draw his attention. John had always been quite perceptive; perhaps if they exchanged a significant look he would begin to understand. Contrary to his hopes, however, John simply appeared more lost as he took in the sight of Mycroft.

"Who...uh, where?" John's voice was broken and scratchy, most likely from the gas. He swallowed convulsively to try and regain his ability to speak, but it didn't seem to do much good.

"You're at Bart's hospital, Doctor Holmes. Do you remember the accident?"

John closed his eyes again, slowly shaking his head no. The doctor looked up at Mycroft over the bed, a worried expression adorning his face.

"Some confusion is common following accidents like his; I wouldn't worry too much about it until we can run some more tests."

"Of course." Mycroft continued watching John, whom had opened his eyes once again and was staring up at him as if he were a complete stranger. Mycroft found the gaze terribly discomforting, and so he was quite relieved when the doctor once again drew John's attention away.

"Doctor Holmes, can you give me your full name?"

"Er," he licked his lips and coughed lightly before swallowing and trying once again to speak. "John Holmes?"

The end of his sentence lifted, clearly denoting that he wasn't in the least confident with his answer. Mycroft would have been relieved that John was playing along with the deception, except that he was developing a sinking suspicion that John wasn't lying for the sake of the ruse.

"What about that of your brother?"

"Brother?" John looked from the doctor to Mycroft, clearly coming to the assumption that the man standing to his left was supposed to be his relative. "Um...Is it...I don't..." John's left hand had begun trembling, and he twisted it in the sheets in an attempt to stop it. The doctor exchanged a look with Mycroft before gently laying his hand on John's shoulder.

"It's okay, John. You don't have to worry about it. He's your brother Mycroft Holmes. It's okay if you can't remember these things right now. You've been through a lot, after all. No need to worry about it yet, okay?"

John nodded and closed his eyes once again. Mycroft resolved to remind John that he wasn't in fact related to him once the doctor left. That was, of course, assuming that John would remember having had this conversation at all later. He had spent enough time with a drug-addled Sherlock to know that these sorts of things had a tendency to slip the mind once the patient had fallen asleep once again. John looked well on his way to going back to sleep already, so Mycroft thought that he would have to delay that conversation until later.

"Alright, Doctor Holmes, why don't you get some more rest while I talk to your brother for a bit? No need to worry, though; I'll have him back before you wake up again."

John merely nodded, unable to do more through the pressing weight of exhaustion. The physician led Mycroft out into the hall, gently clicking the door closed behind himself.

"I'm beginning to think that the effects of the accident are more severe than we originally thought. With your permission, there are some additional tests and scans I would like to take. These would include an MRI and a PET scan, and I would like to bring in a neurologist for a full consultation."

"Yes, of course. That sounds fine."

Together, they walked back to the doctor's office while he explained how both the tests worked and what he hoped to gain from doing them. Mycroft listened intently all the while making note of the different risks involved in performing either scan. Seeing that they were both minimal, he signed off on the papers and returned to John's bedside. As soon as Mycroft pulled up a chair, John opened his eyes once again and turned his head to peer at him.

" 'm sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"About forgetting you. If it helps, I think I forgot myself, too."

Mycroft stared, speechless at John's fairly calm declaration that he couldn't recall his own identity. He wanted to ask more questions, to try and find out exactly what John meant, but he could tell that John was too far gone to have any hope of giving a fully coherent answer. He had slumped back against the pillow and was breathing in slow, steady rhythms as Mycroft worked to fight down the voice that was saying something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

**Author: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I just wanted to give you a heads-up and say that I'll be out of town for the weekend, so my ability to update this may be hindered just a bit. As such, I'll try to get as much uploaded as possible tonight to hopefully tide you over until I can next update.**


	7. Missing Doctors and Dog Tags

By the time Bill had gone through all the formalities of giving his report and receiving his check-up, it was well into the afternoon and he was exhausted. The whole ordeal had become a mess, as reporters scrabbled to get a flashy, dramatized story from any source available. Once someone had identified him as the man that had climbed out of the tunnel and directed the paramedics to the proper car, all hell seemed to break loose. Even while he was being prodded at by a doctor, people had been hounding him for answers regarding what exactly had happened below ground. He had remained obstinately silent; he didn't know if John would want people talking about what had happened, or even if he had a right to tell a story that really wasn't his to tell. He simply repeated that he would rather not talk about it. The way he saw it, the whole ordeal wasn't any of their business anyway.

He had finally been free to retreat to his flat, which he gladly did. He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and then a nap. He figured that John would be busy visiting with his family, anyway, so his visit could hold off until later. He refused to think that the man might be dead. Hell, considering the state he had last seen John in, it would have made more sense to assume the opposite, but Bill had never been one to assume the worst. He preferred to think that everything was fine until he was shown otherwise. Some people said that this made him an optimist, but Bill simply thought it was the most logical course of action; he didn't see how anyone could maintain their sanity if they always assumed doom and gloom.

After grabbing a bite to eat and taking a shower, Bill flopped onto his bed and slowly dozed off. As he did, he thought back on his short talk with John. Even under stress, the man had been fairly pleasant to be around. He had a sort of easy-going manner that was pretty infectious, actually. Bill had thought that, if the future allowed, he would like to go out and get a drink with John sometime. At the very least, they could share stories from their time in the military and boggle at how bizarre it was that they had run into each other again. Of course, Bill wasn't sure if John even remembered him from their first meeting. They hadn't even exchanged names then, after all. That, and John had probably been a bit too preoccupied with bleeding to death to notice Bill all that much. Bill had fallen asleep, then, all the while wondering how John would react to seeing him again. He hoped well; he rather fancied the man.

Abruptly, he was jarred awake by the sound of his phone. He gave an unhappy groan at having been woken, but then sat up and answered. He then had to listen to his mum excitedly describing how he had appeared in the evening news. Bill wasn't particularly thrilled about this; he had hoped that his refusal to give details would have spared him having to see himself on any television screens or newspapers, but apparently it had not. So he patiently listened to his mum talking about how proud she was of him before he finally disengaged the conversation enough to be able to say good bye and hang up. He glanced at the clock, concerned that he had slept through the hospital's visiting hours. Seeing that he had not, Bill quickly rose from bed, dressed and then walked towards Bart's hospital. He supposed that, all things considered, he could be forgiven for being a bit wary of public transportation at the moment.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Bill went directly to the front desk and lightly cleared his throat to gain the attention of the receptionist. The man turned to him, smiling pleasantly in greeting.

"Hello, um, I'm looking for a John Watson."

"Alright. Hold on just a second." The man began typing on his computer, giving a slight frown as he re-entered the information and got the same results. "You said the name was John Watson, right?"

"Yes."

"Hm. The system says that we have a Derrick Watson, but no John Watson. Are you sure you came to the right hospital?"

"I think so." Bill frowned and dug out the dog tags from his pocket to make sure that he had the right name. Sure enough, they said John Watson on them. "Um, do you have an Andrew Johnson?"

"Hold on just a second while I check." The man turned back to the computer and then nodded. "Yes, he's in room 16, floor 2. Would you like directions?"

Once he had assured the receptionist that he could find his way around, Bill began walking to Andrew's room. He hoped that maybe there had just be an error in the system and John had been roomed with Andrew. It would make sense to do so considering they both probably had similar injuries, after all. He also thought that maybe he had come to the wrong hospital; John might have been transported to one with more specialized equipment to care for him or something similar. His first hope was dashed as soon as he stepped into Andrew's room and saw that he was the only person in there. He shifted awkwardly as Andrew's family turned to look at him questioningly, but Andrew simply sat up straighter in his bed and smiled.

"Hey, you're the man from the tube this morning."

"Uh, yeah. I just wanted to see how you were doing." Andrew looked pretty well, all things considered. His leg was thoroughly bandaged, and he was still attached to an IV and a nasal cannula, but he seemed fairly well.

"I'm doing great, actually, thanks to you and that doctor. How is he? I heard that he got pretty ill from the gas."

"I don't know, actually. I came to visit him, but the hospital doesn't have a record of him being here. I was kind of hoping that they had put him in this room with you and just made a mistake in their records."

"No," Andrew shook his head. "I haven't seen him since right before I passed out. The doctor said I was lucky that I did, though. Something about being unconscious slowing my respiratory rate and keeping me from breathing in too much of the gas."

"So you're okay then?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I've got a bit of a headache, and my chest is sore, but otherwise they don't think I'll have too much lasting damage. The leg will be a bit of a bother, but it should be fine once it heals a bit. And you got out of there without any trouble?"

"I did. John stayed with you while I went and got the paramedics, so I didn't actually spend too much time in the gas. Mostly I'm just supposed to take it easy for a couple of days and make sure I don't have any trouble breathing."

"Good. And thanks, really." Andrew smiled while gripping the hand of a young lady standing next to him. Bill guessed that they were lovers relieved to have another bit of time to be together. Bill smiled, too, happy to see that John hadn't wasted his efforts saving some jerk that didn't know how to be grateful. "If you see the doctor, could you drop me a line and let me know where he's at? I'd like to thank him for everything."

"Yeah, sure, just let me get your number."

They exchanged phone numbers then, and Andrew's girlfriend pulled him into a hug, thanking Bill for all that he had done. Bill awkwardly said that it was nothing, that he was just glad to have helped, but she insisted that, once Andrew was let out of the hospital, they were going to take him out to dinner. Bill blushed but nodded. He didn't get out much, anyway, so it couldn't hurt to try and make some friends.

Finally, he was able to untangle himself from any further awkward conversation and walk back out into the hallway. He was confused and a little anxious. He still didn't think that John had died; the hospital would have had this on record and would have told him at the reception desk. He supposed that John had just been taken to a special care hospital, then. This didn't speak well of his health, but Bill still resolved to call every hospital in the area to check and see if he had been brought there. Besides, he could always keep an eye on the news reports. They would most likely be keeping London updated on the condition of the "underground hero," as they had taken to calling John. Eventually, they would probably reveal at what hospital he was. In the meantime, Bill would simply hold onto John's dog tags until he found him again. He suspected that John would want them back eventually, and they gave Bill a reason to keep looking for him.


	8. Not Panicking

John was not panicking.

He told himself that repeatedly, hoping that it made the lie true. Because he could handle the fear, the confusion, and even the concern of everyone else as long as he told himself that it was fine, it was all fine. So what if he couldn't remember ever spending a single hour with the grey haired man that claimed to be his mate? It was fine. And did it really matter if he woke up to a room filled with faces he didn't recognize? That was fine, too. Because it was all fine. Nothing was wrong.

Probably the one relief was that he slept almost constantly, and didn't have to face any of it for extended periods of time. And of all the unknowns, he could count on one constant: Mycroft. He was always there, always ready to help John put names to faces and recall his relations to the latest slew of visitors. John silently cursed John-before-the-accident for having been such a social creature; it made everything now unbearably complicated. He wished that he could sink into the mattress and make the world start over with a clean slate, just like he had. He felt it was unusually cruel to have the odds stacked so massively against his favor as soon as he awoke; he felt as if he were in a horse race but was riding a mule.

He sighed, wrinkling his nose irritably against the nasal cannula they had stuck in his nose in the place of the face mask. While he appreciated being able to speak more easily, he did not particularly enjoy having little bits of plastic shoved up his nostrils. He was none too fond of the IV,either, but they had insisted that he needed it. He supposed that this was true, but he also knew that he was supposed to be able to know these things without being told them. He didn't understand why they kept up the pretense of calling him "Doctor Holmes" when he could hardly recall any of the information he had supposedly learned in med school. It seemed a bit like calling a horse a stallion after you had chopped off its baby-making bits. Nor did he understand his sudden need to draw analogies between his life and horses. Maybe he had developed amnesia along with a pony fixation. He would have to remember to ask Mycroft if he had ever shown much interest in horses before the accident. In the meantime, he settled back for another nap. Like all things, his question could wait until he felt better rested and therefore better prepared to deal with the world at large.

-oOo-

Mycroft was becoming increasingly concerned as time passed. He kept trying to find a moment to tell John that he wasn't really his brother, but something always seemed to get in the way. Whenever John was awake, he was almost always surrounded by visitors or doctors, all of whom were pressing him to answer questions and talk to them in general. And it never failed that, once they finally cleared out, John would only remain awake long enough to ask Mycroft a few questions about his life before the accident and then he would fall asleep. Mycroft would have been severely put out if he didn't know that John desperately needed the rest to help his mind and lungs heal.

It had been nearly a week since the neurologist had confirmed that John had near-complete retrograde amnesia, and in that time nobody had questioned Mycroft play-acting as John's brother. Actually, once Harriet had heard the diagnosis, she had become strangely distant and had only come to visit a couple of times. Lestrade, meanwhile, had apparently explained the circumstances of the deception to the rest of the Yard and John's friends, therefore causing them to all play along with it. Mycroft was slightly confused by their easy compliance with the ruse; he had thought that they would all be opposed to lying to John, but then the young lady named Sally Donovan had finally explained it to him while they were walking to get some coffee together.

"It's just that he's happier when you're around. At least, that's what it seems like. We all noticed it the other day when you left to go get lunch. He pretty much stopped talking and started looking at us as if he thought we were all playing an elaborate prank on him or something. After all that he's been through, it would be cruel to take away the one person he trusts."

Mycroft had once said that John was quick to become loyal, and he believed that now more than ever. It's just that this time, he was afraid John had put his trust in the wrong person. He didn't want to continue lying to John, but once Sally had pointed it out, he couldn't help but notice all the small ways that John clung to him. Whether it was in asking him about his past or simply clutching onto the sleeve of his suit jacket while he slept, John depended on Mycroft to be his security blanket, and Mycroft didn't know if it would be more cruel to continue lying to him or to take away his cornerstone of support.

In retrospect, Mycroft could think of a multitude of ways that he could have better handled the situation to have avoided the mess he had created. He simply hadn't thought that he would ever actually be taken as John's brother; the thought that John would wake up and assume he was really related to Mycroft had never even crossed his mind as a possibility. Now, though, he realized that he should have made himself John's godfather and then falsified documents stating that Harriet was unfit for making legal or medical decisions. It would have saved himself and everyone else the mire they had currently landed themselves in. He momentarily wished that he hadn't reassigned the Time Travel Division to the Zombie Apocalypse Contingency; perhaps he would be able to go back and fix the mess before it started, then. He allowed himself a self-indulgent smile before turning his attention back to reality and actual solutions to the problem.

Unable to find any, Mycroft gave a frustrated sigh and slouched in his chair. At least, he sat a little less stiffly in it. He was careful in making sure that he didn't jar the hand that John had placed on his wrist, just in case he accidentally woke him. Mycroft had spent a great deal of time observing John in the past week, and had found that he had gained a new fondness for the man. He had always liked John, of course, but that was simply because he kept Sherlock out of the worst of the trouble he usually found himself in. Mycroft was also willing to concede that he had been a little bit taken up in John's natural charm, much like everyone else. He still smiled when he thought of John sitting in his office, smiling awkwardly as he lied to Mycroft about Sherlock's dedication to the Bruce-Partington fiasco. Of course Mycroft had known that John was simply trying to cover for his brother, but he had been wholly untroubled by John's attempt at lying to him. In fact, he found it rather endearing that John had gone through all the effort of putting on a suit and then coming to his office just to ask a few simple questions so as to maintain the charade that Sherlock was actually working on the case. Now, though, the fondness was for John himself, and not the role that he played in Sherlock's life. Now Mycroft found himself legitimately concerned for John and his well-being, both physical and emotional.

Suddenly, the hand which had been lightly resting on his wrist tightened ever so slightly, and John gave a small sigh as he writhed into consciousness.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, John?"

"Did I like horses?"

"Uh..." And then there were times like this one, when Mycroft did not know the answer to John's questions. Many he knew simply from his surveillance of him, but others he simply had not considered. Such as the other day when John had asked if he liked jam or not. Having some vague recollection of seeing John spreading jam on some toast while talking to Sherlock over breakfast, Mycroft had hedged a guess and said yes. "You didn't seem to dislike them."

"Oh. Okay."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Head and chest hurts. I'm going to rip these things out of my nose soon."

"If you do, they'll just put you back on the face mask."

John gave an irritated grunt but otherwise stopped fiddling with the tubing around his nose. He fumbled with the controls on his bed until he got it into an upright position and then rearranged the pillow to his liking before settling down.

"How much longer before I can go home?"

"I'm not sure. They haven't mentioned it, really. It's probably going to be a while, though. You still have a very high risk of infection, and they want to give your lungs more time to heal. That will take time."

"Right." He lapsed into silence while he began scratching at the housing the doctor had placed over the IV in his hand in hopes that it would keep him from dislodging it. Again. Mycroft reached over and pulled John's hand away giving him a reprimanding sort of look. John responded by crossing his arms and assuming what looked suspiciously like a pout to Mycroft. "It's my IV. I should be able to tear it out if I want to."

"And then they'll put it right back in."

John rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn't make any motions to tug at the IV any further. Mycroft was astonished that, even though John said he didn't remember much about being a doctor, he still acted just as terrible a patient as any physician would. He suspected that the joke would be lost on John, though, so Mycroft didn't mention it. Best not to remind the man that he had lost a wealth of knowledge, both personal and professional.

"You said that I was in the military until I got shot, right?"

"Yes."

"Then why are all my friends cops or the like?"

"Well, that's a bit complicated..."

"And the rest of it isn't?" John's eyebrows raised incredulously while he gave Mycroft a lop-sided grin. "I'm starting to think that I need a flow chart just to understand my own life. I think we're a bit past complicated, Mycroft."

"I could draw a flow chart up for you, if you like."

"Would you please? And maybe put some pictures on it, too. Really embarrassing ones."

"I'll have to dig up the ones of you on your second birthday when you decided to entertain the guests by running through the house naked, then." These pictures did in fact exist, and Mycroft had found them when he went to visit Harriet for the first time. She had been living in their parent's old house, then, and the photo album had been left sitting under the coffee table where their mum had put it before passing. He had casually mentioned them to John and watched with poorly concealed amusement while the man blushed and explained the story behind them.

"Oh yes, certainly, that sounds wonderful. And maybe include some of me in my awkward, pimple-faced teenager phase too, yeah?"

"I wouldn't dare forget those. Although there were fewer pimples involved and more absurd haircuts." This, also, was true. Having only seen John with his cleanly cut hair, it had been quite startling to find pictures of him with varying sorts of arrangements of hair.

John laughed, wincing as it irritated his throat. Mycroft handed him a glass of water, which John drained before turning serious once again.

"So you said that my relationship with the Yard is complicated?"

Mycroft nodded. He had hoped to derail John's train of thought enough so he would forget that he had asked the question in the first place. John, however, was still quite astute despite the brain damage, and wouldn't be so easily manipulated out of getting his answers. Mycroft took a deep breath as he prepared himself to answer. He couldn't very well answer John's question without revealing the truth, and he found that he was actually afraid to do so. He tried to steady himself, to tell himself that it was necessary for John, but for once the cold hard facts weren't a comfort.

He was about to tell John everything, to explain why he had lied and why he had maintained it for so long, and then answer his question which would inevitably lead to talking about Sherlock. He was going to do it, was prepared to lose the fragile vein of trust John had placed in him, until the door swung open, jarring Mycroft from beginning his explanation.

-oOo-

**Author: Oh yes, I am going to leave a cliffhanger. XD Anyway, I'm glad that most of you seem to like Mycroft; that was my intent, and I hope this chapter doesn't cause any "OMG, I can't believe Mycroft did that" wank. I legitimately do like him, and don't think that he intended to cause a mess.**


	9. Harry's Choice

Harry sat on the far end of the sofa opposite the end table to her right. She frowned deeply at the collection of bottles sitting on it before flicking her gaze back to the telly. She clutched tighter onto the arm of the sofa, as if she could anchor herself in place. Unfortunately, she was trying to anchor herself against herself. And she always failed.

She had gulped down a fourth of a bottle of beer before really realizing that she had moved at all. With an angry snarl, she tossed the bottle away and quickly propelled herself from the sofa to begin pacing around the flat. The small amount of alcohol in her system did little to help ease the craving, the desire for _more more more_. Nor did it stop the headache, the way it felt as if her muscles were lurching willy-nilly in her own body, or the nausea that made moving at all a vertigo-inducing experience.

She finally gave up the pacing and curled onto her bed. She kept up her mantra, the chant of words that had carried her into her second day of sobriety: _For John, for John, for John_. He would need her after he was let out the hospital; she had listened to Mycroft and the doctors talking enough to know that he simply wasn't going to be able to take care of himself for a long period following his release. There was the possibility that he would need to remain on the oxygen, not to mention that he had likely forgotten some of the most basic skills in caring for himself. He would need someone else to look after him, and that responsibility would inevitably fall upon Harry because she was the last person he had left. The Watson family had always been relatively small, but the most recent couple of decades had essentially wiped out all other members of their close family. She was sure that they had some distant cousins somewhere, but they couldn't possibly be asked to take care of John. And so it was her job, and she couldn't very well do it properly if she was drunk all the time.

She whimpered, dragging a pillow down and curling herself pitifully around it. She was miserable, and thinking that it was necessary for John's well-being wasn't helping at all. In fact, the pressure of the situation just made everything worse. She thought that she might have had a chance at remaining sober this time around, if only it wasn't so damned important that she actually do it. The thought that her failure to abstain would only hurt John more made her want to reach even more desperately for the nearest bottle.

To make matters worse, the more she thought about it, the less she felt as if she would be able to help John at all. She had never been much of a care giver; even after John had been shot, it was Clara that had done most of the nursing. At that time, they had separated but their relationship was civil enough that Clara had been more than willing to help John transition from staying in the hospital to living alone in his flat. But now she and Clara could hardly stand being in the same city as one another, much less occupying the same room. No, Harry was on her own this time, and she doubted that she was going to be able to handle her new responsibilities. She just didn't have a single nurturing bone in her body, and like all her shortcomings, this was only going to hurt John.

She laid there the rest of the night, unable to sleep but equally unable to get up for fear that she'd slip as soon as she did so. She couldn't stop the tirade of angry, self-deprecating thoughts, however, and simply had to listen to the mental abuse until sunlight finally began streaking through the window. By the time morning finally arrived, she was nothing more than a hollow shell, useless until it was filled with worth once again. She groaned, burying her face into the pillow while she tried to muster enough energy and will power to take herself to the shower. It had been three days since she had last visited John, and she could no longer avoid doing so without feeling even more despicable. She finally dragged herself out of the bed and into her shower just long enough to wash away any unpleasant odors from her days spent wallowing in self-pity, and then she dressed and wondered out the door.

By the time she finally arrived at the hospital, Harry was seriously considering just forgoing the whole mess in favor of nipping off to the pub just a couple of streets over. John wouldn't miss her, really. He still thought that Mycroft was his brother, after all, and no mention of his relation to Harry had been made at all. For all John knew, she was just another one of the nameless faces to whom he had once been acquainted. And then, the more she thought about this, the more it made sense to just leave the arrangement at that. Mycroft was, after all, significantly more put-together than was she. And he had already spent so much time by John's bedside that he had essentially replaced the need for Harry to be there at all. Not to mention that it was pretty obvious that John preferred Mycroft's company over Harry's, or anyone else's, for that matter. As Harry walked towards John's room, the thought took root, gradually becoming more logical as she looked at it from every angle. Yes, there would be the initial problem of everyone else adjusting to John's new identity, but considering all the adjusting that John had to do, wouldn't it be fair to have them make a few adaptations for him? It didn't seem right that John was the one doing all the struggling while everyone else just looked on pityingly. It didn't seem right that John had to relearn an entire identity when he could simply create one that better suited him. Mycroft was, after all, a much better sibling to him than Harry had ever been.

Once she had arrived at John's room, Harry had made her resolution. She was going to do everything in her power to make John happier, even if it meant losing him as family. She could still pretend to be an old friend of his or something, after all. Maybe even a cousin. And it would be better for John in the long run. He deserved someone as steady and dependable as Mycroft taking care of him. He shouldn't have to put up with an alcoholic sister while he was also trying to put himself back together. He was a good man; his second shot at life should at least have some guarantees for happiness. And maybe, if they were very lucky, this would turn out to be better for them all. John would have a chance at erasing all the war wounds which woke him up at night, Harry would be able to use this as a catalyst to get her life back in order, and Mycroft would have a second brother, not a replacement, perse, but at least one that would be as devoted and loyal to Mycroft as he had been to Sherlock.

She swung the door open and was surprised to find John awake for once. This left her momentarily stymied, but she quickly gathered her resolve once more.

"Um, hello, John." Both men looked at her with somewhat annoyed expressions. Well, at least Mycroft looked less passive than usual while John wore his same old clenched-jaw expression of frustration. Some things hadn't changed after the accident. She frowned, realizing that she had interrupted something, but then she plowed onward. "Mycroft, I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private?"

"Yes, of course, Harriet." He rose, ignoring her usual eye roll at his insistence on calling her by her given name. It was rather irritating, but then she couldn't imagine him ever calling anyone by a nickname anyway. Together, they walked out into the hallway and down to one of the empty vending rooms where they could purchase coffee and other such snacks. "What is bothering you, Harriet?"

"John, of course.I was just thinking...Well. That maybe..."

Mycroft watched her struggle to find the right words with a slightly quirked eyebrow. As usual, his cool demeanor had her fumbling to find her own bit of steady ground, but she knew that she was once again utterly failing in this endeavor. For a moment, she thought that this wouldn't be nearly as difficult if only she could have a drink, but she quickly squashed that thought as counter-productive and hedged forward.

"It's just that I'm not sure that I'm the best person to be caring for John at all. I thought that, if I could just sober up a bit, everything would be fine, but now that I'm sober I'm realizing that a lot of my problems are still around even when the alcohol's gone. I'm still a snarky git, I'm still up to my eyeballs in debt, and I still wouldn't know the first thing about helping another person out because I can hardly help myself."

"What are you saying, Harriet?"

"I'm not saying anything so much as asking, I guess. And I know that asking this is too much; I know that you've already got a lot in your own life, what with Sherlock and all, but I was thinking, well...John's a good man, and a really terrific brother once you get past his annoying heroism streak, and I was just thinking that maybe you two could really hit it off as siblings. Permanently."

Mycroft watched her closely for far longer than she was comfortable with, as if he were trying to pick her apart and read every single thought that had led her to making this decision. She supposed that he probably was, all things considered. It really wouldn't surprise her to find that the man had some sort of mind-reading technology stuffed away in that umbrella of his. He cocked his head at her slightly, then, his eyes raking over her face once more before he began speaking.

"Are you suggesting, Harriet, that I maintain the charade that I am John's brother?"

"...Yes."

"And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with yourself once you have been released from your familial responsibilities?"

"I'll get rid of the alcohol and try to find a steady job again. After that, I'm not really sure. Maybe try to smooth things over with Clara enough so that we can at least have a civil chat if the need ever arose."

"And John?"

"What do you mean?"

"What would you want of your relationship with John? You wouldn't be able to remain his sister; Mummy would more than happily welcome a war hero and a man that has selflessly saved many lives into the family, but she would not tolerate having you as an addition, I'm afraid."

"No, of course not. I wouldn't ask it. I could be an old friend of his, I suppose, and maybe just pop in to see him once in a while. We never really talked much before the accident anyway."

"And what of his friends and associates? They won't wish to lie to him about such an important factor of his life."

"I'll talk to them. They'll understand, I'm sure of it, once I explain everything."

"And you are sure that your reasoning for continuing the deception is sound?"

She took a moment to consider the arrangement as objectively as she could. No matter how she looked at it, the benefits far outweighed the costs. "Yes."

"You are lucky, Harriet, that I was beginning to come to the same conclusion myself. We will, of course, have to make some arrangements. I believe you will find that John's friends will be much more obstinately opposed to the change than you might imagine. As such, I will help convince them that it is for the best. Beyond that, I will also require that you keep your word and maintain your sobriety. I will be most displeased should I find that you are using your release from your familial obligations to indulge in your baser urges once again. Also, you will completely relinquish any say that you might have otherwise had in John's care. From now on, what I think is best is what we will do for John, and if you have any objections, you will keep them to yourself. Am I understood?"

"Yes." For a brief moment, Harry wondered if she had just stumbled into an alternate version of Faust in which she played the title role and was currently making her deal with the devil. Mycroft was being far from devilish, however, in accepting her request, so she squashed the nervous sensation bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

"Very good. I do hope you realize the many complexities involved in fulfilling your request, and you understand that I am doing this for John's benefit and not for any other reason."

"Right." She nodded the affirmative while Mycroft abruptly turned his back to her.

"I will begin finalizing the arrangement, then. In the meantime, I believe you should find a support group to help you with the withdrawals. You look ghastly."

-oOo-

**Author: Okay. That's that. Now that we're past the plotting and scheming part, we can get to the fun angst and (faux) brotherly love part! Woo hoo!**


	10. Eating Sauerkraut

John wriggled irritably in the bed and began listlessly plucking at some of the fibers of his sheets. For a moment, he had thought that Mycroft was going to tell him something very important, if the expression on his face was anything to go by. But then the girl named Harry had ruined it. Now he was left sitting alone in his room with no knowledge of what he should do with himself in this situation. He didn't want to sleep again, but if Mycroft was going to be gone for long he also didn't want to just sit and twiddle his thumbs while he waited for his brother to return. It didn't help that something about Harry made him very uneasy. At first, he had attributed it to the fact that she was obviously ill, but even that no longer seemed to explain the strange almost guilt-like feeling he had when she was around. Admittedly, he felt guilty around nearly everyone for having forgotten them, but it was worse with her. He didn't know why; it just was.

He was about to throw in the towel and just go back to sleep when he heard a light tapping at the door. He perked up instantly, glad for any company even if it wasn't Mycroft. The tapping was followed by the door opening and a fairly familiar grey head poking around the frame.

"Hey," Lestrade smiled. "Are you okay with having a visitor?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, actually. Mycroft's gone out for a bit, so it was getting pretty lonely." John wondered if he sounded as wretchedly dependent on Mycroft as he felt. He shook the thought aside, however, as Lestrade sat himself next to the bed.

"Other than the boredom, how are things going then?"

"Pretty well. Still sorting things out. Do you know if I liked horses?"

"Um," Lestrade appeared to be suppressing a smile at the question. John supposed that it was rather absurd to be asking everyone John-before-the-accident knew if he liked horses or not, but at the moment the question felt very important. "You never really mentioned them either way. I suppose that you didn't have an opinion on them, really."

"That's good, I suppose. I'd rather not wake up and find I'm obsessed with horses, really. They're kind of frightening, once you think about it."

"You know, John, nobody expects you to be the exact same person as you were. We're just glad to have you around still, even if you are a bit different. Losing your memories won't change the things that made us like you in the first place; it just means that we've got an opportunity to make even better memories to replace the old ones."

"Yeah, I know. I just don't want to accidentally eat sauerkraut or something and find that I hate it. And what if I thought I loved horses, but then I got on one and realized that I'm terrified of them? That'd be pretty embarrassing, especially if everyone knew that I was scared of them in the first place."

"Well, I don't think anyone actually _likes _sauerkraut in the first place, so you're pretty safe from that one, and if you're ever about to do something that I know you didn't used to like, I'll warn you about it. Although there's always the possibility that you'll like things now that you didn't like before, so I wouldn't let that be the deciding factor in whether or not you try something again."

John grinned, suddenly realizing that he was looking at things in the entirely wrong way. "You know, I think you're right, Lestrade, but I'd like to start figuring out for myself what I like and don't like now. I believe that it's imperative that I do so as soon as possible."

"Okay. Will you need help with that?" Lestrade looked slightly wary, as if he could see where the conversation was headed.

"If you don't mind. I would do it myself, but you know, I'm on bed rest and all." John scowled down at his lap in a gesture that wasn't entirely for dramatic effect. He really did hate being confined to his bed, but his doctors insisted that he was in no fit state to be up wondering around the room.

"Well, if there's anything I can help with, all you need to do is ask."

"Thanks," John looked up with a slightly mischievous smile. "I was actually just thinking that I'd like to try some chocolate cake to see if I enjoy it or not. And maybe some apple pie, too."

Lestrade took a moment to figure out how he had become ensnared in John's trap before grinning back at him. "That was pretty smooth, John. Sherlock would have been proud."

"Sherlock?" John cocked his head to the side and blinked up at Lestrade, whose face had quickly gone from cheerful and teasing to dark and a bit hesitantly wary.

"Mycroft hasn't told you about him then?" He had shoved his hands in his pockets and looked slightly guilty for having brought it up in the first place, which only led to John becoming more curious about this new name.

"No...Who is he? I guess I knew him before all this?"

"Er, maybe we should talk about this later when you're-"

"No, I'm fine. Really. You guys can't keep not telling me these things because I'm a little sick; honestly, I feel fine and am just tired of everyone walking on egg shells around me. Now, who is Sherlock?"

Lestrade looked like an animal caught in the head lights of a car for a long moment. He was completely frozen while trying to work out a response to John's question. "Sherlock was, um, well he's..."

"Sherlock is our younger brother."

John quickly turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway once again. He seemed somewhat tense, but still seemed to exude calm command. Lestrade, meanwhile, was staring at him with his mouth agape in surprise.

"I have another brother?"

"Well, you did until only recently. I'm afraid that Sherlock passed in a tragic accident only a couple of months ago. You both were quite close; you even helped Lestrade and his team solve some crimes together. Sherlock, you see, was a detective of sorts. You began working as his assistant following your return from Afghanistan."

John honestly couldn't find the proper words to describe how he felt in that moment. Like his reaction to Harry, the mention of Sherlock dredged up a bounty of vague feelings and shadows of impressions. He identified that same inexplicable feeling of guilt, but then there was a pang of grief that made him physically wince from the force of it. For a moment, he was afraid that he was going to start crying in front of Lestrade and Mycroft, which would have been truly humiliating as he couldn't even say that he remembered Sherlock in the least. All he had to connect himself to the man was Mycroft's word and this conglomerate mess of indescribable emotions that had his mind reeling in confusion that he hadn't felt since first waking up in the hospital. He was so preoccupied trying to sort through all this that he didn't even notice the sharp glare that Lestrade threw in Mycroft's direction.

"You...I have...Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was concerned for your mental well-being. You already had so much to cope with, I didn't wish to add to your burden unnecessarily until it was absolutely unavoidable."

"I'm not a child. I can handle these things just fine, thank you." John was aware that the slightly shrill edge to his voice quite thoroughly negated his point, but he couldn't help it. The abrupt unloading of all this information had left his head spinning, and he couldn't gain full control of himself.

"I understand, and I'm sorry to have misled you, but I was honestly just trying to do what was best for you." Strangely enough, Mycroft was looking at Lestrade while he said this. Lestrade was opening his mouth to protest when John cut in once again.

"Okay, I can see why you didn't mention it right off, but next time I'd prefer to learn of these things a mite bit sooner, yeah? You know, so people don't pop up with deceased siblings in conversation when I didn't even know that I had another brother."

"Of course, and I am sorry, John. I'll use better judgment next time. And you have my assurances that Sherlock is the only deceased relative for which you should be concerned."

John nodded while staring down at his hands and trying to regain his composure. His left hand had begun trembling as Mycroft had said it was wont to do, saying something about psychological damage from the war. John couldn't remember anything about the cause of the tremors, just that they came often enough now that he feared it would become a handicap.

"You know, Lestrade," John said while burying his hand in the sheets. "I could really use that chocolate cake now."

"I was actually just thinking that maybe Mycroft and I should step out to have a spot of lunch together, in fact. I think we would be more than capable of bringing you back some dessert if it's okay with your doctors." Lestrade was practically staring daggers at Mycroft, but John was too preoccupied with getting his hand under control to take much notice.

"That'd be great, thanks." He sank back into the mattress and watched while Mycroft and Lestrade gathered their coats to head out. He forced a smile long enough to bid them goodbye before rolling over miserably onto his side. He tucked his hand against his chest, letting the involuntary twitching of the muscles in his hand and heart press against one another. He closed his eyes and let the name Sherlock take root in his mind, committing it to memory as best he could. He searched for any sort of concrete recollection of the man, but all he found was a wealth of out-of-reach sensations which felt like he was clutching at plumes of smoke or reaching into the night sky to grab a star; each time he thought he had finally grabbed something tangible, he opened his hand only to find it empty once again.


	11. Convincing the DI

"What in bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Lestrade rounded on Mycroft as soon as they were out of John's ear shot. Mycroft stood calmly under Lestrade's anger, however, and merely cleared his throat before beginning his explanation.

"Only what I think is best for John. And before you begin discussing the legalities of my actions, I should inform you that Harriet made the request in the first place. I had nothing to do with her decision, even if I do think it is the only logical one."

"Logical? You sound like a ruddy Vulcan, Mycroft. This isn't about _logic;_ it's about you lying to a man about his past and possibly causing even more damage than what's already been done."

"How, Lestrade? You yourself have commented on John's lack of a proper support system. You know as well as I do that Harriet is wholly incapable of caring for herself, much less another person. John wouldn't stand a chance of making a successful recovery if he were to stay under her care. I'm simply increasing his chances of becoming a fully functional individual once again. I fail to see how my actions are in any way damaging."

"There are better ways to do it, Mycroft. You could have just asked Harry to let John stay with you, if that's what you really wanted. Or maybe you should have told John the truth and then asked him what he wanted to do. You've got no right to decide these things for him, especially when you're manipulating and lying to him."

"You were more than willing to play along with the ruse just yesterday. I don't see what the problem is now. It's not as if John losing anything; in fact, he's gaining quite a bit through this arrangement. Harriet will still be just as involved in his life as she chooses to be, and I will welcome any of his friends and acquaintances to remain in contact. Essentially, the only thing that will have changed is his last name and his caretaker. As both are an improvement over what he would have had otherwise, I don't understand your objections to the arrangement."

"You're practically rewriting his entire past, Mycroft! What are you going to say of his parents? And how about his childhood experiences? Surely you can't pretend that neither of those existed."

"I doubt that John will wish to try and live in the past, as you seem to believe. From my knowledge of the man, he will be too busy making a new future to dwell in what he can't remember or change. As such, I will answer any questions he has as honestly as I can, but I highly doubt that there will be much to answer."

"Right, because he hasn't been asking us incessantly about how things were before."

"That will stop once he has something to occupy himself. You must admit that a hospital room isn't the most stimulating environment; as such, he has little else to do except engage in introspection. When he has his rehabilitation and other things to preoccupy himself, he will likely stop focusing so much of his attention on things that he can't remember."

Lestrade grew quiet for a moment to try and wrestle down his anger and find a new argument against Mycroft. The problem was that Mycroft seemed as unmovable as a brick wall in his belief that he was doing what was right. He calmly shot down any argument Lestrade put forward to the contrary, completely unfazed by them and seeming rather bored by the whole affair. Lestrade was slowly beginning to realize that Mycroft was unlikely to see any flaw in his logic until it blew up in his face. Still, he couldn't help but make one last half-hearted attempt at making Mycroft change his mind.

"You know that if John ever finds out about all this, he's going to hate you, right?"

Mycroft watched Lestrade for a moment, and Lestrade almost believed that he had found the chink in Mycroft's armor, but then he merely smiled the same distant sort of smile that all truly good politicians wore when manipulating their constituents. "I can assure you, Lestrade, that if anything of that nature ever happened, I would make no efforts to ingratiate myself back into John's favor. In that case, he would be able to decide for himself if I was a good enough adoptive brother to remain in his life."

They remained standing in the hallway for a moment longer, their postures slowly easing into less aggressive stances. For Lestrade, this meant unclenching his fists and letting his shoulders fall into a more relaxed position. For Mycroft, he simply adjusted his grip on his umbrella so that he was no longer prepared to use it as a weapon against Lestrade should the need arise. They both gathered their resolve and turned to continue walking down the hallway, tension still bubbling between them, but at least buried beneath calm exteriors now.

"And you won't tell John of my deception?"

"No," Lestrade bit out with enough venom to show how thoroughly he disapproved of Mycroft's actions. "But I won't be held responsible when it all goes to hell. I want it noted that I had no part in this."

"It has been noted." They lapsed into silence once again while Lestrade weighed the pros and cons of trying to start up the argument again. He didn't have anything new to say, though, so he kept his mouth shut for the time being. He wondered how long the deception could go on before it was too late to tell John the truth; he wondered if maybe they were already past that point. Considering how strongly John had reacted to finding out about Sherlock, Lestrade doubted that he would be able to take much more bleak news without falling into some sort depression. John already seemed to be teetering dangerously along the line of "Understandably Melancholic" and "A Bit Not Good."

"Where would you like to have lunch, Detective Inspector? Any place you would like is welcome."

"I won't be bribed into agreeing with this scheme of yours, either."

"Not at all. I was merely being polite. Considering all that you have done for Sherlock in the past, it is the least I can do for you."

"Oh. Okay, then." They finally agreed on a little bistro just around the corner, where they settled in at a small table while the waitress took their orders. Mycroft pulled out his phone and began fielding emails as soon as the young lady was gone, and Lestrade was left staring blankly down at the placemat. He frowned, tracing his finger over the edge of it while he pondered the last months' events.

"John isn't going to replace Sherlock, you know."

"That was never my intention. Although, I must admit that having someone at the house with me sounds like a refreshing change of pace. Things do tend to become a bit quieter than I like when home alone."

"Right." Lestrade unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap while considering what Mycroft had said. He had never really taken the time to consider what Mycroft's home life was like. In fact, like he had with Sherlock's, he typically avoided thinking about it at all. He suspected that, instead eyeballs in the microwave, he would find plans of great importance in Mycroft's house which would inevitably lead to him having to be shot or sent to a safe house as a "security threat." No, Lestrade would rather not ever be invited to Mycroft's house without multiple reassurances that he wouldn't end up inadvertently becoming an enemy of the state.

"Do you think John and your mother are going to get along any better than they did before?" Considering that Mycroft's mother seemed just as cold and manipulative as her son, Lestrade thought that this was a very valid question.

"I believe that Mummy will be able to behave herself once she has properly considered the extenuating circumstances. I trust that she will treat John as she would any other member of the family, although that is admittedly not much better than she treats the staff of our household. However, John is a fairly adaptable man; I'm sure that he will take all of our family's eccentricities in stride."

Lestrade snorted, but didn't say anything else as their meal was brought to the table. He smiled pleasantly at the waitress, whom responded with a deep scowl before stalking back into the kitchen, presumably to pick up whatever conversation she had been forced to leave on her cell phone while delivering their food. Lestrade shook his head disapprovingly, but then felt like that made him look too much like an old-timer, so he shrugged off her brusque manner and turned his attention back to his food. He frowned as he noticed that Mycroft had yet to touch his food, opting instead to keep tapping on the screen of his phone.

"If you're always so busy with work, what makes you think that you'd be any better than Harry at taking care of John?"

Mycroft finally gave an exasperated sigh and set his phone on the table, leveling his gaze on Lestrade. "Your arguments against the arrangement are becoming increasingly feeble and tedious, Inspector. If you had been paying attention at the hospital, you would have noticed that I only tend to my business when John is not in need of my company. I've become quite adept at juggling my personal and professional lives over the years; I am quite capable of coping with this comparatively minor change in lifestyle."

"Oh, yes, because taking on full-time duties as the caretaker of a recently injured person is a very minor change in your lifestyle." Lestrade couldn't help but roll his eyes at Mycroft. He seemed, like his younger brother, completely ignorant in some matters, particularly those of a more personal nature.

"I took care of Sherlock for many years."

"Yes, and he somehow ended up in my flat for weeks while he detoxed and recovered from the withdrawals. Magnificent job there, Mycroft. I don't see why you haven't started your own babysitting service yet."

For a moment, Mycroft's calm facade cracked, and Lestrade saw something akin to anger and remorse flicker across his features. He quickly regained his composure, however, and merely stared coldly across the table at Lestrade. "Sherlock could not- _would not_- be helped. He fought me at every turn and scorned every offering of aid I gave him. I did my best to keep him off the streets and make sure that he had a meal of some sort every day, but he refused any help that he suspected came from me. I can only be thankful that he eventually began to trust you enough to let you do that which he rejected from me."

"I'm sorry." Lestrade ducked his head and suddenly became very interested in nudging the food on his plate around with the tines of his fork. He hadn't meant to hurt Mycroft, not in that way at least. Not so soon after Sherlock's death. Now he felt this terrible feeling of guilt for having brought any of it up in the first place. He remembered how ghastly he had felt upon seeing Sherlock start the process of coming clean; he couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Mycroft having to watch and ache to help while Sherlock slowly destroyed himself.

"I understand your concern, Lestrade, but I can assure you that I will do my best to make John as happy as possible. I feel that I owe it to him, given everything that he has done for both Sherlock and myself. I believe that, if you look closely enough, you will find that I never let a service to my family go unpaid. To me, ensuring that John has every chance available to make this next part of his life a good one is the best way I can think to repay him."

Lestrade nodded, but he still couldn't fight off the slightly queasy feeling that dogged the whole matter. He knew on a moral level that lying like this was wrong, but he also couldn't deny that Mycroft was more than likely a better person for the job of helping John re-adjust than was Harry. Besides that, he couldn't fathom John's reaction should he find that the one person in which he had placed his full trust had in fact been misleading him from the very first day. He sighed, deciding that there was no easy way out of this conundrum and thinking that he would just go with whatever happened and hope that none of it turned out too messily.

"Well, I'm done here, if you want to order John's cake and then we can head back to the hospital. I don't have too much time left before my shift starts, and I'd like to see John a bit longer before going to work."

"Of course." Mycroft smoothly signaled for the waitress to return and placed their order for a slice of chocolate cake to go. The waitress snidely asked if she should put two spoons in the box while giving Lestrade and Mycroft a suggestive look, but Mycroft ever so calmly stated that only one was necessary. She stalked back into the kitchen while Lestrade glared after her.

"She's a ray of sunshine, isn't she?" He asked sarcastically as the door slammed closed behind her.

"Yes, well, I doubt that you would be very forthcoming with pleasantries if you were living with an abusive boyfriend. Probably you should leave a note with your name and number, should she ever decide to look for help."

Lestrade blinked, slightly shocked at Mycroft's casual revelation. He had known that Sherlock had some sort of a sibling rivalry with his older brother, but he had never actually seen Mycroft's deduction-making in action. He was desensitized enough to Sherlock's random spouting of everyone's personal life history that it wasn't terribly off-putting to hear Mycroft doing the same, but he still felt as if he were invading the girl's privacy. Nevertheless, he fished a pen out of his jacket pocket and quickly scribbled the necessary information on a napkin which he left placed in plain sight. She would have to collect when clearing the table, and would hopefully use it if she ever felt the need. Then again, Lestrade hoped that she would find her own way to resolve the problem without his intervention; if things had escalated to the point where he was actually needed, then her situation was very bad, indeed.

"For a detective inspector, you're not very observant, Lestrade. It's a shame, really. I suspect that the criminal classes would be far less prevalent if the Yard trained their forces to be more aware of their surroundings when dealing with the outside world. Crime is everywhere, if only you had the eyes to see it." Mycroft casually tucked his phone back into his coat pocket and rose from his seat to collect the box of cake from the waitress and pay the bill. Lestrade silently fumed at Mycroft's implication that he wasn't doing his job well. He supposed that cynicism and condescension ran in the family.

As they walked out of the bistro, Lestrade continued to mull over all that Mycroft had told them during their meal. One question in particular was still niggling at the back of his mind, and so he finally gave in and asked, "When you said that you always repay those that have helped your family, does that mean you're the one who paid off all my debts and gave the anonymous tip that helped solve the case which got my promotion all those years ago?"

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder with a slight smile. "Well, I didn't pay the debts so much as erase them from existence, and I would have called in the anonymous tip either way; that it just so happened to be for a case on which you were working was merely a lucky chance."

"Yes, I'm sure it was."

By the time they returned to the hospital, Lestrade was disappointed to see that John had already curled onto his side and was sleeping soundly once again. He had to fight down the urge to give an exasperated groan because he knew that John needed rest more than anything else, but he couldn't help but feel a little cheated. John had practically been his best mate before the accident, but nowadays he hardly even got to speak to the man between work and John's erratic sleep schedule. How could he be expected to reestablish his friendship with John when he only got to speak to him next to never? It was quite frustrating, but he tried to act as if he wasn't bothered. That is, until Mycroft allowed the door to slam shut, hence jarring John out of his slumber. He blinked up at the two men and smiled blearily while rubbing at his eyes.

"Hey, that was a quick lunch."

"Time flies when you're having fun, I guess," Lestrade smiled back at him while John wriggled himself into a sitting position.

"Yeah, because sleeping non-stop is loads of fun." John was already suppressing a yawn while scratching absent-mindedly at the IV which fed into his hand. Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh and pressed John's hand back against the mattress while looking down at him sternly.

"If you don't stop messing with it, I will duct tape a glove over your hand so you won't be able to find the IV to scratch at it."

John stared up at Mycroft intently for a long moment as if gauging whether or not he would actually make good on his threat before rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to Lestrade. His hand did, however, remain resting on the bed sheets.

"How late do you have to work tonight?"

"I'm not sure; it depends on the paper work. Our case load is pretty light this week, but I still have a bit to do in regards to proper filing and all that."

"Oh." If Lestrade didn't know better, he would have thought that John was pouting. The John he knew, though, did not pout. Then again, some little things were bound to change after the accident. "Well, if you're not too late, maybe you could swing by for a bit and we could play cards or something. Mycroft's been teaching me poker."

"That sounds great. If I can't make it back tonight, I'll come tomorrow. And maybe I can bring you some of that apple pie to try, too."

John nodded while struggling to repress another yawn. Lestrade glanced at his watch before clearing his throat. "Well, I'd best be off. I'll send Mycroft a text if I think I'll be able to make it over tonight, okay?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Right." Lestrade nodded his farewell to Mycroft as he strode out the door. He actually found himself very much looking forward to the eventual poker game. It would almost be like the old days, when he, Dimmock, John and Anderson had all gathered at Lestrade's flat to have a few drinks and play a game or two. While he couldn't imagine John as being very good at it now, he still thought it would be fun. Besides, people could always be surprising when playing card games. Hell, Lestrade had been shocked that Mycroft even knew the basics of poker, much less knew enough to try and teach it to John. Maybe the game wouldn't be so easy after all, if Mycroft was playing. He suspected that the "minor government official" had quite a few tricks up his sleeve.

John, meanwhile, had curled onto his side once again and was already mostly asleep while Mycroft tugged the covers up around his shoulders. He wasn't entirely sure why he had offered to play a game of poker with Lestrade; he just knew that it seemed like something the Detective Inspector would have liked. John felt a little guilty about lying to the man about re-learning how to play, but he didn't think it fully counted as a lie as long as he planned on learning sometime in the near future. Besides, Mycroft _had _been teaching him how to play Bullshit, and in his mind they were essentially the same thing. He resolved to actually learn how to play the game when he next had the chance while he writhed into the most comfortable position possible with the IV still in his hand and the small tubes running into his nose and then settling his head against the pillow. He blinked up at Mycroft and smiled just a bit as he saw him pulling his phone out of his pocket once again.

"You don't have to stay with me all the time. I can manage for a bit without you."

"I know, but I'm going to stay anyway."

"That's nice." John grew quiet for so long that Mycroft assumed he had fallen asleep once again, but then he heard John murmuring something under his breath.

"What's that, John?"

"I just said, you'll have to teach me to play poker when I wake up. Lestrade won't be very happy if I don't know how."

"Of course." Mycroft didn't know why John had said that he was learning how to do it in the first place, but he assumed that John thought it was important to know how to play poker if he were lying about it. He resolved to teach John the best he could, and he even looked up directions on the internet to make sure he had all the rules right. Considering that the game seemed largely based upon misdirection and that they were all apparently becoming quite adept at the art of lying, Mycroft thought that a game between the three of them could be very interesting, indeed.

-oOo-

**Author:**

**First of all, thank you to everyone who has shown encouragement towards the story; really, the reviews and alerts are staggering and they make me feel very pleased, indeed.**

**Secondly, I have a choice for you wonderful readers to make! I am currently considering two sub-plot-like things involving Sherlock, but I only want to add one so as to avoid overwhelming myself. The first option (SP A) is that I throw in additional chapters which describe what Sherlock is doing while he's away. This would most likely lead to more angst and quite a bit of Brooding!InDanger!Sherlock.**

**The second choice (SP B) is that Mycroft's brotherly experiences with John lead into parallel reflections/flash-back-type things of his experiences with a younger Sherlock. Some of these might be angsty, while others would be humorous and more light in content. **

**Again, I could do both, but I feel like juggling three plot lines might be a bit of stretch for myself. If you would really like to see both, feel free to say so, but otherwise please leave your votes for (SP A) or (SP B) in the reviews.**

**Thank you once again for all the feedback, and I hope that the rest of the story continues to please. :D  
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	12. Coming Home

**Author: Thanks to everyone whom voted! It really was helpful. While technically (SP A) won the most votes, I agree with many readers whom pointed out that including Sherlock at this point might detract from John too much. So, after much mulling and a great deal of plot shifting, I found a way to compromise and include both (SP A) and (SP B). For those that voted for (SP A), you're going to have to wait a bit longer to get Sherlock's side of the story, but fear not, for it will be there later!**

**Also, I'm going to use the actors' actual ages and say that Mycroft is ten years older than Sherlock. And I might as well include warnings for blatant abuse of Google translate.**

-oOo-

There were times when Mycroft seriously considered drugging John. The man was now capable of staying awake for periods longer than a few hours, and hence the sleeping patterns that he had learned from Sherlock had returned with a vengeance. That is to say, he hardly slept at all. And when John wasn't sleeping, he was constantly searching for some form of stimulus. This essentially meant that Mycroft was spending less time attached to his phone and more time intervening in John's latest bout of restlessness.

Today in particular the idea of slipping some benzodiazepines in with John's lunch sounded pleasantly appealing. And also putting out an arrest warrant for whatever fool thought that giving John a paddle ball had been a good idea.

_Thwack._

"Hey! I think I got it!"

It had started earlier that morning after John had picked at some eggs for breakfast. At first, there was only the sound of the rubber ball thunking against wood and then ricocheting in random directions, occasionally forcing Mycroft to dodge until he had finally pushed his chair a safe distance from John's bed. Now, hours later, John was rewarded for his perseverance by the rhythmic _thwacking _of the ball against the wooden paddle.

Mycroft gritted his teeth and reread the last sentence he had just typed in response to an email. He had apparently lost his focus somewhere in the middle of formulating it, as evidenced by the shoddy grammar and unclear nature of it. He sighed, deleting the last bit before his fingers began plucking against his phone anew.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, John?"

"Could you hand me that second one? I want to see if I can get two going at once."

Oh dear lord. He hadn't noticed that there was a _second _paddle ball set. He was going to have to start fielding the items that John's friends brought him for entertainment. This was almost too much to bear. Nevertheless, he leaned over and handed John the toy. John shot him a pleased grin before beginning to fumble with the two paddles. The rhythmic thwacking stuttered into and uneven beating but then picked up anew, this time even louder as two balls struck against wood at the same time. John gave a delighted laugh and began changing the pace of each hand to create a sort of beat. Mycroft took a moment to look up from his phone to watch the show. He had to admit that, annoying though the sound of the paddle balls was, John's hand-eye coordination was remarkable. Of course, that was to be expected given his talent with firearms.

-oOo-

There were times when Mycroft seriously considered locking Sherlock up in a sound proof room. He would, of course, leave an abundance of food for the boy (really, the amount of food the child consumed was astonishing given his rather diminutive size) and provide the necessities for proper hygiene. Honestly, he didn't have any actual problems with his younger brother; he just made so much _noise._

_Screech._

"Is that how you play A sharp, 'Croff?"

Mycroft gritted his teeth and repositioned his fingers over the strings of his cello. He had been so distracted by Sherlock's clawing at his violin that he had played the entire last bar of Elgar's concerto in the completely wrong time. Careless, foolish mistake.

"You could grate cheese with that A sharp," he responded to Sherlock's inquiry.

Unperturbed by or not understanding Mycroft's sarcasm, Sherlock beamed toothily up at him and began dragging his bow across the strings of his violin with renewed vigor. Mycroft refrained from cringing as the screeching nearly became supersonic. Sherlock, meanwhile, closed his eyes and began swaying on the floor as if he were listening to a soft lullaby. Mycroft had tried to tell him that he couldn't properly play the violin while sitting cross-legged on the carpet, but Sherlock refused to play anyway else. His music was strewn on the floor all around himself, and occasionally a foot would dart out to curl toes over a sheet and drag it closer to his eyes. Mycroft shook his head at Sherlock's complete and utter lack of form, but noted that he was doing quite well as far as the positioning of the bow was concerned.

"One day, when I'm grown up just like you," Sherlock announced over the squealing of his instrument. "I'll be the bestest violin player, and you'll be almost as good on the cello, and we can play together in the big theatre, and Mummy and Da will come see us just like they go see the fat lady singing."

Mycroft smiled and nodded his assent to Sherlock's proclamation. He failed to mention that being sixteen hardly made him "grown up," or that, even if they were to become accomplished musicians, it would likely take much more than that to gain enough of their parents' approval for Mummy or Da to come see them play. Mycroft had been taking first in various competitions throughout Europe for years and yet neither of them had come to one of his recitals.

Once he had come to the conclusion of his own piece, Mycroft sat back and watched Sherlock scrape his way through his final sheet of music. It sounded vaguely like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but then again it might have been My Blue Shoe. He honestly couldn't tell. He smiled as Sherlock made a show of sweeping the bow over the strings as he had seen musicians in the symphony orchestra do so often. He had to admit that, annoying though the sound of Sherlock's screeching was, he seemed to have some miniscule amount of talent buried beneath the dramatic scraping of his bow. Of course, this was to be expected given that he was a Holmes.

-oOo-

Mycroft had been very wary of bringing John back to his flat at first. For one, his neurologist had mentioned that, though John was unlikely to ever fully recover his memory, he would probably experience flashes of recollection and brief pangs of recognition. Mycroft feared that coming to his house would only serve to make John realize that he didn't live here, nor had he ever visited the place prior to the accident. John, however, seemed completely oblivious to the fact that anything was amiss. He simply continued staring out the window in awe of London. It was somewhat endearing to see John frozen in front of the glass, his fingers pressed lightly against the pane, while gazing into the city's skyline. It made Mycroft remember exactly why he dedicated his life to serve and protect his beloved country; it was so people could enjoy simple moments like this, where they were able to look out onto the world without fear of terrorism or danger.

For another, he had feared that the stark contrast between John's belongings and the rest of the flat would serve to underscore just how out of place he was in Mycroft's home. While Mycroft tended to like things to be angular and utilitarian, John's possessions were largely soft and comforting. His sheets were in shades of browns and creams whereas the rest of Mycroft's house was in sharp blacks and whites. John's wardrobe contained mostly jumpers and slightly worn button ups while Mycroft's was fit to burst with three piece suits and too many ties to count.

This fear proved valid as John froze upon entering the room in which Mycroft had arranged to have his possessions moved. He slowly looked everything over, his head slightly cocked to the side as he took it all in. For a moment, he simply looked very confused, but then he turned back to Mycroft with a puzzled expression.

"I didn't always stay with you, did I?"

"Not at all. You and Sherlock shared a flat on Baker Street. However, I took the liberty of having your belongings moved here. I thought it would be better for you, given that you'll be on bed rest for a while, and even once you're able to move around on your own I'm sure you'll need help re-adjusting."

John nodded quietly while sitting down on the edge of his bed. He picked up a small figurine from his side table and stroked a finger over it. Mycroft wasn't sure what the personal value of the object was, but since it had been left on John's nightstand, he assumed it was important to him somehow. John stared at it for a long moment as if trying to discern that very same thing before setting it back down on the table with a long sigh. He buried his face in his hands, then, taking deep, calming breaths. Mycroft hesitated in the door; he had never been one for helping people cope with their emotions. He could read them, sure, read them as easily as he read German texts, but he didn't know what to do with them. Not when he wasn't manipulating them, that is.

"John..."

"Yeah. No, I'm fine." John straightened once again, turning his grin-and-bear-it smile on Mycroft. "Really, this is too much. I don't want to be a hassle. I can move back in my own flat and maybe hire someone if I need it-"

"Nonsense, John. I want you to be here as much as you need to be here. Possibly more. I have always enjoyed company, yours in particular."

"Thanks." John grew quiet once again, dropping his head to stare down at his trainers. When he began talking, his voice took on a sort of hesitant monotone, as if he were unsure of what he was supposed to be saying or with what emotions. "I know I've been a bit of an intrusion, but I...Well, I really appreciate what you've done. You know, the hospital and...everything." He waved his hand in a vague gesture of his meaning.

"John," Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed with him before hesitantly wrapping an arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "It's not an intrusion at all. I've enjoyed spending the time with you. Really."

John stiffened when Mycroft first touched him, but then he relaxed into the embrace and after a few long moments of silence John's head fell against Mycroft's shoulder. At first Mycroft was confused by the sudden change, but soon he realized the cause when he felt John's shoulders hitch under his arm. He looked down in surprise only to see a single tear cutting its way down John's cheek. He pulled John closer, then, letting John hide his tears in the lapel of his suit.

-oOo-

"Sherlock?" Mycroft nudged his brother's door open with his foot and peered around the frame to see if Sherlock was sleeping or not. He wasn't, of course. He was sitting up on his bed, back turned to the door as he stared out the window into the rain that was leaving long streaks down the glass. He pressed one finger to the glass and followed the meandering trail of one of the drops as if mesmerized by it.

"Sherlock, do you feel like having some dinner?" He eased through the door, careful not to tip the tray of soup and juice he had brought. Sherlock jerked his head dismissively, but Mycroft pressed forward nevertheless. "You need to eat something. You'll only make it worse if you don't."

"It's raining," Sherlock stated simply in response.

Mycroft sighed and carefully arranged the tray on Sherlock's nightstand before taking a seat next to him on the bed. "I know."

"It's supposed to be snowing." Sherlock's voice came out in a harsh, raspy croak. At least he was able to talk now. The days of forced silence had been torture for the both of them.

"I'll send a letter of complaint to Tlaloc if you wish."

Sherlock gave a derisive snort followed by a brief spurt of coughing. "Seems that would be about as fruitful as writing to Santa Claus."

Mycroft's face grew stony at the masked layer of hurt beneath Sherlock's words. He knew that Sherlock had stopped writing to Saint Nick many years ago; he even refused to complete an assignment in grade school in which he had been told to write a letter to the mystical man, stating that he "refused to be deluded into believing in magic and childish nonsense." He was about seven at that time. Now he was twelve, but Mycroft knew that it didn't stop him from wishing. He himself hadn't stopped wishing until he was well into his teens.

"I'm sure they would be here if they could. Besides, you've got me here. I came back for you." He smiled and attempted to thread an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock merely shrugged off the offending limb and continued staring out the window beyond the withering garden and into the weeping sky.

"But you'll leave again. You have to. You can't become successful and wealthy like Mummy and Father unless you graduate uni at the top of your class," Sherlock stated bitterly. Mycroft winced ever so slightly at his scathing words. He could deny wanting to become like their parents, but it was pointless. He was, after all, studying law just as their father had. In Sherlock's eyes, that was as good as swearing an oath of loyalty to the man.

"I'm here now, though, so you might as well make the best of it. We could play a game, if you like, after you've eaten some dinner. Or maybe watch a movie. Would you like to do anything?"

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip for a moment, finally prying his eyes away from the window. He turned to face Mycroft then, frowning ever so slightly. "I thought that maybe we could play together, if you wouldn't mind. I've been practicing a lot."

The unspoken end to Sherlock's sentence was, "since you abandoned me." Mycroft, however, ignored the twinge of guilt he felt and nodded. "That would be wonderful. Although I must warn you, I haven't played in some time. I might not be able to keep up with you."

"That's okay," Sherlock rasped out while brushing slightly sweaty curls from his eyes. "I'll go slow for you." A smirk quirked at the edge of his lips, however, and Mycroft knew that he planned to do exactly the opposite.

"Dinner first, though." He pushed the tray towards his little brother, whom promptly wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"I don't want to. My stomach's upset."

"A light meal will help with that. It's bound to be unsettled if you've been starving yourself."

Sherlock scowled, twirling his spoon through the soup before hesitantly taking a bite. He cautiously took another before plunging into the bowl with gusto, only pausing every now and then to take a sip from his glass of juice. Mycroft set about tidying up his room while he ate, gathering the clothes which Sherlock had carelessly tossed on the floor up and sticking them in the laundry basket. He was busy arranging Sherlock's books so that they were actually sitting properly on the shelves when he heard a weak voice call out to him.

" 'Croff?" Mycroft turned in time to see Sherlock gag and then clamp a hand over his mouth while his eyes widened in panic. He quickly grabbed the nearest bin and shoved it under Sherlock's chin just as the heaving and retching began. He sat next to his brother, wrapping his arm over Sherlock's shoulders and gently rubbing circles on his back as Sherlock continued vomiting. Eventually, the gagging ceased and was replaced by sharp hitches of Sherlock's breath as he strove to collect himself.

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock murmured lightly while spitting the last of the bile out of his mouth and into the bucket.

-oOo-

"Do I have to go back there?" John groaned as he fumbled to get his trainer tied. Apparently, he hadn't slept well; his hair was even more disheveled than what it normally was of the mornings, and his bed was lacking of a clear imprint of his body, meaning that he had been tossing and turning too much the night before to have made one.

"Yes, John. The emotional aspect of your recovery is just as important as the physical." Mycroft stood patiently by the door, lightly tapping the tip of his umbrella on the ground while John yanked one of his familiar cardigans over his shoulder.

"But I'm not emotional! Or even moody. Well, maybe a bit moody, but Lestrade said that I was always like that." He snatched a book off his desk before obediently following Mycroft out the door. That was one aspect of John Mycroft simply didn't understand; he would groan and complain and voice his objections, just to do whatever unpleasant task he had been instructed to do in the first place. This was quite the contrast to Sherlock, whom would groan and complain and then refuse to do anything at all until whatever he didn't want to do was removed from the equation. It was quite a disconcerting adjustment for Mycroft to make. He had been prepared to go to war and drag John to his therapy session, but then he had simply complied while wearing a slight scowl of displeasure.

"I think I need to have a talk with Lestrade about enabling." Mycroft smiled at John as he rolled his eyes and climbed into the sleek black car. Mycroft slid in next to him and gave the address to John's therapist while John fished a pencil out of his trouser pocket and flipped the book he had taken open. No, not a book. A sketch pad. John's pencil began moving over the paper in soft strokes while his lip caught between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"What's that?" Mycroft attempted to peer over John's shoulder, but John quickly tucked the pad out of sight.

"Nothing. Just a silly assignment my therapist gave me. It's supposed to help me organize my thoughts and stuff. Get a clearer focus of what I can remember." John smiled awkwardly, but his fingers remained tightly clenched around the book as if he were afraid that Mycroft would try taking it.

"That sounds like a reasonable thing to do," Mycroft said and turned his attention back out the window so as to give John some peace of mind about the book. His efforts were rewarded by the sound of John flipping the book open once more and the scratching of his pencil as it worked over a sketch. "Is there a lot you remember?"

"Not really. Just some brief flashes of a scene, and sometimes a few hazy pictures. I try my best to sketch them like I see them in my mind, but I think I make up half the details without consulting my actual memory. It would be hard to draw what's in my head, because a lot of it doesn't make sense or is too vague to really make anything of it. But I try, like she said to."

If Mycroft were a lesser man, he would have begun plotting a way to get his hands on that sketch pad. He wasn't worried about the ruse being discovered; from what John had just told him, he was a long way off from making any meaningful connections to his past. Mostly, he just wanted to see what John was drawing. What was important enough to have been spared erasure from his mind. Mycroft knew that it didn't necessarily work that way, but he also thought that, in his last few moments of awareness, John would have realized what was likely to happen and then would have tred to store the most important bits the best he could. Mycroft was not, however, a common thief or snoop, so he bit down his curiosity and steeled himself to wait until John was ready to show him on his own.

-oOo-

"What, precisely, are you doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leapt up from where he had been kneeling on the ground, quickly tucking something away behind his back. "Nothing," he stated coolly while looking up at Mycroft defiantly. The dust smeared on the knees of his trousers, however, said quite the contrary.

"Of course. Because "nothing" is precisely what little boys whom are in the middle of their Latin lesson are supposed to be doing." Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at his brother while the boy screwed up his face at the mention of Latin.

"I latina non placet!" He declared while Mycroft struggled to maintain his stern facade. He had to agree with Sherlock; Latin had been one of the more unpleasant of his studies.

"Whether you like it or not, it is still an important part of your lessons. I'm sure Mummy would be most displeased to know that you were skipping out on them."

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh but then took a meandering course back to the side room which was used as his study. He plopped down at his little desk and began dully reciting vocab while Mycroft stood in the door and listened. He saw the outline of whatever Sherlock had been hiding tucked into his back pocket, but he didn't want to interrupt his lesson again to ask him about it. Sherlock would surely disclose the nature of the object of his own accord shortly.

"Accido, accidere, accidi..." He heaved yet another sigh and simply thunked his head down onto the wood of his desk in resignation. "It's so boring!" He cried in distress. Deciding it was time to intervene, Mycroft stepped into the room and tousled his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"Just try to think how useful it can be in the future. You never know what profession you might wish to pursue, and Latin is a necessary evil in many careers. What if you want to become a doctor? You'll very much need it then."

Sherlock's head popped up from the surface of the desk, and his eyes were alight with excitement. "But I already know what I want to do when I'm old like you," he said in a near-whisper which was intense with earnestness and fervor.

"Oh? And what is that?" Considering that only two weeks ago Sherlock had stood atop the table at dinner time and announced that he was going to become a marine biologist and therefore needed a scuba suit, Mycroft was going to take his latest profession with a grain of salt.

"I'm going to be a detective! I'll solve murders and send villains to prison and protect the Queen and country from the dastardly schemes of a criminal mastermind!"

Mycroft fought back the urge to laugh at Sherlock's announcement. Of course Sherlock would skip from marine biologist to detective extraordinaire. "Really? A detective? Wouldn't you prefer being a cop?"

"No," Sherlock wrinkled his nose at Mycroft as if he had just stuck a decomposing toad in his face. "They're useless. I always hear in the news about how they can't solve any of the crimes. I don't want to get mixed in with that lot."

"Of course not."

"But I've already got a notebook and everything!" He fished the little pad from his back pocket and held it up for Mycroft to see. "I've been taking notes about the stuff I see, so that if there's ever a crime here I can solve it. But you can't see it; it's top secret. Look," his skinny little finger stabbed against the cover, on which he had scrawled "Top Secret" in neat block letters.

"Ah. I'd best not look, then. However, I feel I should point out that knowing Latin could come in very handy in the detective's line of work. What if a villain writes all his notes in a code based off Latin? Or what if you need to do research on the Atelerix albiventris, but you don't know what it is to do research on it?"

"That's easy. It's a hedgehog!" He rolled his eyes at Mycroft but glanced back at his Latin workbook nevertheless. "Fine. But I won't like it."

"I never said you had to."

Years later, when Mycroft was helping pack Sherlock's possessions away for transport to university, he found a rather large collection of notebooks with "Top Secret" scrawled on the front in neat block letters. Seeing that Sherlock was preoccupied with sorting through his scarf collection, he flipped the very first one open. There, printed in the hand of Sherlock's eight-year-old self, were notes concerning everything from the accumulation of dust on objects in the attic to how toads reacted when introduced to differing stimuli. He smiled at the book and tucked it into a box with Sherlock's other novels and reference materials. Perhaps Sherlock would find it and would avoid the trap that he had fallen in. Perhaps Sherlock would find it and remember the dreams of his younger self and choose to follow those instead the misguided wishes of their parents.


	13. Three Months

**Author: Warnings for innuendos about masturbation, violence, poor descriptions of boxing, foul language, drug use, and pretty much every character but John and Lestrade being big jerk-faces. Oh, and shameless use of Wikipedia to try and figure out how one goes about practicing law in England. *Sigh* One day I will know everything and not have to resort to such low forms of research.**

**Wow, all I need now is sex and I think I might have hit all the warnings. Oh wait, that's **_**next **_**chapter.**

-oOo-

Mycroft supposed that they were lucky to have gone the past three months without any real incidents. There had been, of course, John's initial uneasiness in the flat, what with the way he hesitated before touching anything as if afraid that he was committing some terrible breech of Mycroft's personal boundaries, or how Mycroft constantly had to give him subtle reminders that he wasn't an unwanted guest over-staying his welcome. And some days were better than others. Some days everything appeared fine, as if John had always lived with Mycroft and simply belonged there as much as Anthea belonged in Mycroft's office. Others, John would seem somewhat removed from reality, as if he were too busy looking into the shadowy universe of his memories to bother with the actual world around him. Mycroft understood this, too, and left him to his own devices. Unlike Sherlock, John was capable of recognizing that he had a problem and finding his own way of coping with it.

Which was why, when Mycroft was abruptly woken up by a loud thumping sound issuing from John's room, he was quite confused and a little bit frightened. Considering how well John had been doing, his first thoughts regarding the noise were of intruders and assassins. He quickly rose from his bed and pulled a dressing gown over his nightclothes before slipping his hand around the pistol he kept tucked in a drawer and carefully walking towards John's room. He paused outside the door, surprised to see light streaming from below the frame. He was about to push the door open when he heard the rasping sound of John's breathing in sharp, disjointed pants. For a second, he considered the possibility that he might be interrupting a more..._intimate _moment, but then he thought that John probably wouldn't have left the light on if _that _was what he was doing, so Mycroft gently rapped his knuckles against the door and waited for John's response. When none was forthcoming, he waited a bit longer to ensure that he wouldn't walk in at a less than timely moment before pushing the door open.

"John..." He stopped in his tracks as he took in the scene spread out before himself. John was sitting on his bed, evidently in the early throes of a panic attack while his hand scratched furiously over his sketch pad. Papers were already strewn carelessly over the bedclothes and floor, but still John continued sketching, baring the pencil down hard enough on the paper to leave thick smudges of graphite on what was once pristine white surfaces.

Mycroft stooped to collect one of the discarded sheets off the ground, his eyes quickly scanning the page to try and make sense of what had caused this sudden outburst of John's. It was difficult to make much of the image as it was clearly drawn from John's perspective as if he were experiencing it again, but slowly the pieces fell into place. He tilted the image slightly, and it all became clear. The sketch was of a pair of trainers and the trouser-clad calves of whomever was wearing them, but they were both standing at an odd angle, as if the person looking at them had been laying on their stomach and looking over at them. The edges of the sketch were also hazy and dark, creating a tunnel vision-like effect. Mycroft dropped it and quickly peered at some of the others, confirming his worst suspicions. Although each picture was merely a fragment of a larger story, together they vaguely reconstructed the events that transpired at the pool all those months ago.

"John!" Mycroft grabbed John's shoulders in an effort to draw his attention back to the present, back to his sheltered and safe reality. John obediently looked up to meet Mycroft's gaze, his hand stalling over the page he had been working on, but Mycroft could tell from the glazed look in his eyes that he wasn't fully returned to their setting. "John, what you're seeing isn't real. It's just a memory. Do you understand me?"

John swallowed harshly then slowly nodded. His eyes were losing some of their glassy appearance, but still he was shaking in Mycroft's grip and his breathing was far from normal. "I didn't know what to do...I had a dream- a nightmare- and I woke up, but I wasn't...I wasn't here, not really. I was still in the dream, but it wasn't...It didn't make sense." John dropped his head, a shuddering breath wracking its way through him as he further tried to calm himself.

Mycroft watched John in silence until he seemed to have regained some of his composure. When the muscles in John's neck and shoulders had somewhat relaxed and Mycroft was sure that he was firmly grounded back in the here and now, Mycroft let go of John's shoulders and eased himself onto the mattress next to John. "It was just one of your memories resurfacing. Your therapist talked to you about this, yes?"

John nodded again but still kept his head bowed low, as if afraid that if he looked up he would find that he had slipped into his nightmare world once again. "None of it was really clear. Not at all, actually, except for chlorine. I could smell it; even when I knew it wasn't real, I could smell it everywhere. I still can."

Mycroft forced a smile and placed a comforting hand on John's knee. He had become better at reading what actions were acceptable in which situations, and this situation definitely called for a comforting touch. "I can fetch you an air freshener, if you wish," he said jokingly. John, he had discovered, preferred to laugh problems off rather than dwell on them.

Sure enough, John finally looked up, a small, feeble smile tugging at his lips. "I think it would take more than a few dangly pine trees to make it go away." He frowned, his fingers picking at the seam of his sleep pants, and Mycroft recognized instantly what he was about to ask. "So...What do you think that was? The memory, I mean. I couldn't make heads or tails of it."

"Well..." Mycroft's mind was whirling. He could tell the truth, but doing so would just bring about so many more questions, and those would simply beget more lies. Wouldn't one major lie be less harmful than a multitude of smaller ones? In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought to himself before beginning to talk once again. "Well, if I'm not mistaken, it is probably related to your time in Afghanistan. You were involved in multiple bombings, including some near buildings that would have made the sort of destruction you drew."

"But what about the chlorine?"

"That's probably just a slight error on the part of your memory. I'm sure that some of the chemicals used in bombs and the like could smell quite similar to chlorine."

"Oh," John chewed on his lower lip as if trying to decide whether or not he believed Mycroft before giving a light shrug. "It doesn't really matter anyway, right? Not any more, at least. It's just part of my past; it's not like it's that important, yeah?"

"Right." Mycroft was slightly disturbed by John's cavalier attitude towards his life prior to the accident, but then again he supposed that it was simply a defense mechanism. He would have to drop a line to John's therapist and mention this development. In the meantime, he thought it was best to keep John distracted from the memory. "Well, since we're both up and neither of us have a chance of having some proper rest, what do you say we get some breakfast?"

John's eyes darted to the clock sitting atop his nightstand and then turned to Mycroft with raised eyebrows. "At three in the morning?"

"Why not?"

John shrugged and clambered off the bed, forcing the hollow smile that Mycroft had grown so used to seeing upon his face. "I'll make the waffles if you make the eggs, then. And don't put any of those weird spices in them, either. I didn't like them the last time you did that."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Forgive me, John, for trying to bring a little culture into your life. For a man who has spent time abroad in multiple continents, you seem to be terribly closed-minded."

Their light banter continued as they made their way into the kitchen and then began preparing their meal. Mycroft had little interest in the food, but the conversation was having the desired effect of easing the tension that had still been radiating from John. For that, he continued following John's orders concerning how to properly prepare the eggs while watching in amusement as John meticulously prepared the batter for their waffles. Since John had little else to do during the daytime, he had essentially taken over dinner duties and as such was becoming quite skilled in preparing their meals. Mycroft repressed the thought that he had, by denying John knowledge of his past, turned the soldier into a housewife. John had every opportunity to choose to do something else if his current role in their flat didn't suit him. Mycroft had not, he assured himself, pressed this upon John. Besides, John seemed to enjoy cooking, no matter how much he moaned about the absurd contents of Mycroft's spice rack.

Having finished the eggs before John was done preparing their waffles, Mycroft set about laying out the plates and silverware and also pouring their drinks. It was a rather nippy morning, especially considering how early it was, so he decided that some hot chocolate would be appropriate. He was in the middle of stirring the pot full of cocoa when he happened to catch a glimpse of John reaching out to turn the waffle iron off. His hand was shaking so badly that it took multiple attempts for him to fumble the switch into the "Off" position. Mycroft looked back down at his pot, pretending that he hadn't seen, as John carried a plate laden with waffles into the dining room.

"Go ahead and have a seat, John," Mycroft called after him. "I'll have the cocoa out in a moment."

"Okay."

In for a penny, in for a pound, Mycroft reminded himself as he quietly opened a cabinet over the stove. He searched through it quickly before finding the two bottles he wanted. He poured two cups of cocoa, then, and unscrewed the caps from the bottles to shake some of their contents into John's mug. One was a sedative, while the other was a light amnesiac. He couldn't give John enough to completely erase the memory of that night, but he could at least give him enough to make it feel more vague, less disturbing. John would wake up in the morning and probably only recall the barest of details from the night before, and that suited Mycroft just fine. At least then he wouldn't have to worry about John looking up whether or not explosives actually could smell like chlorine.

He carried the two mugs out to the table, carefully placing them such that John received the mug with the drugs intended for him. John murmured his thanks before digging hungrily into his plateful of food. They continued making conversation about anything and everything not related to John's nightmare, each of them carefully sidestepping any topic which might lead to further discussion of the memory. Gradually, however, Mycroft noticed John's attention slipping and his eyes drooping.

"Mycroft," John slurred. "I think I should go back to bed..." He stifled a yawn while his head slumped down to his chest then bobbed back up sharply as he blinked into the lights to try and force himself awake.

"Of course. Would you like assistance?"

In the time it took for John to process what Mycroft had said and then attempt to formulate a response, his head had already dropped back down to his chest and his response, whatever it was, was so garbled that Mycroft just assumed he said, "Yes." He did not look, after all, to be in the proper condition to go anywhere under his own propulsion.

"Alright, come along, John." Mycroft dragged him up from the table and together they shuffled their way towards John's room. He collapsed haphazardly onto the bed before sluggishly rolling over and blinking blearily up at Mycroft.

"You drugged me, didn't you?"

Mycroft thought it was best if he ignored what John had said while he continued pulling the covers back up around his shoulders and otherwise settling John in for a long rest. With any luck, the amnesiac would work to erase that particular bit of information. Once he was sure that John was fully asleep, Mycroft quietly set about collecting the papers he had left thrown across the floor. His breath hitched as he looked at the last one John had been working on. It was of two hands joined amid rubble, both dirty and bloody, but the fingers entwined so closely they formed a knot of knuckles and ash-smeared skin.

-oOo-

Mycroft had learned a long time ago that it was best to sleep on the floor of Sherlock's room on nights like these. If he didn't manage to quieten Sherlock before he awoke their parents, then it just made everything much, much worse. Part of him resented Sherlock for making the situation more difficult than it already was, but another part understood. Another part of him couldn't help but sink deeper into himself to cower as their shouts echoed down the hallways and up the stairs. Another part of him still ached to curl into Nanny's lap and let her console him with delicate fingers threading through his hair. But Nanny wasn't here, just him and Sherlock.

He knew better than to interrupt when Sherlock began whimpering and writhing on the bed. If he did, Sherlock would fall asleep shortly thereafter and then the dreams would start anew. No, he had to wait until the whimpers threatened to turn to shouts or sobs, had to sit and watch until Sherlock was panting and crying. Then when he woke him up and calmed him down enough so that he went back to sleep, Sherlock would remain asleep in a dreamless landscape and Mycroft would be able to get some rest of his own. Until then, though, he simply sat beside Sherlock's bed and waited.

Sure enough, Sherlock began quietly wriggling on his bed, his fingers clutching at his pillow while his legs kicked out and tossed the sheets to the foot of his bed. His knees curled up to his chest then, and he gave a low, weak whine. Mycroft carefully reached out to him, placing a hand on his wrist to try and calm him enough so that he wouldn't make so much noise their parents awoke, but he knew that they were far from the end of the ordeal. The crying would begin soon thereafter. Mycroft patiently sat next to Sherlock waiting for this and silently hoping that Sherlock had learned enough by now to not cry out for their mother. That was the absolute worst thing that he could do.

When Mycroft thought that it was safe to intervene, he clambered up onto the bed next to Sherlock and began trying to shake him awake while murmuring comforting little phrases. Sherlock came to awareness slowly, as children are wont to do, blinking up at Mycroft through tear-filled eyes. His lower lip immediately puckered into a pout as he tried to quiet himself. He knew from past experience that waking their parents with the sound of his crying only made matters worse.

" 'Croff?" He dragged his hand under his nose, smearing the mess of his tears across his face. Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the boy before retrieving a tissue from his nightstand to clean him up.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It was only a dream."

"But the fight wasn't." Sherlock stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. His next words came out in a slightly panicked whisper. "Daddy didn't mean it, did he? He isn't going to...He won't...hurt Mummy, will he?"

"Of course not. He was just angry. People say things like that when they're angry, but they never actually mean it."

Sherlock had twisted himself out his his covers now and had crawled up to Mycroft to lean against his side and burrow his head in Mycroft's shoulder. "And Mummy isn't going to leave us?"

"No. Mum's going to stay. She wouldn't want to leave you, no matter how angry she was at Dad." Mycroft failed to mention that they hardly saw the two of them for it to really make a difference if either one walked out on the other.

"I didn't mean to make them angry," Sherlock sniffled and fresh tears began to fill his eyes. "I didn't drop the glass on purpose."

"I know, Sherlock, and they don't blame you, either. Accidents happen. They were already mad at each other and just used the glass as an excuse to yell about it."

"I made them a new cup to make up for it." Sherlock's tiny little hand darted out to his nightstand and grabbed a deformed lump of slightly damp clay. He pressed it into Mycroft's hand and smiled. "Do you think they'll like it?"

"I think they'll love it." The "cup" as a whole wasn't even big enough to hold a thimble full of water, and Sherlock had obviously tried to carve the same pattern that had been etched into the glass on it using a toothpick. The result was a brown, cracked, and deformed ball with a thumb print in the middle meant to hold the liquid. Mycroft smiled and set it to the side to put away later.

Sherlock gave a long, drawn out yawn then, his hand nearly smacking into Mycroft's nose as his arm stretched out. "Will Mummy be home for Sunday brunch?"

"Probably. She usually is." Mycroft carefully turned Sherlock about so that he was laying across his bed once again. He untwisted the sheets from the bottom of the bed and pulled them up under Sherlock's chin while the boy writhed into his most comfortable position. "Go to sleep, now, and don't worry about it anymore. Everything will be fine in the morning."

"Okay. Thanks, 'Croff."

Mycroft turned his bedside lamp off and slipped out the door and into the hallway, taking the little clay cup with himself. He would put it in with all the other little knick knacks Sherlock had made for their parents over the years. There was a whole box filled with them, ranging from toothpick-and-marshmallow men to rocks with little faces drawn or painted on them. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure why his parents bothered keeping them, considering that they placed no value on the objects whatsoever, but he had devoutly added to the box, assuming that eventually it would serve some higher purpose.

-oOo-

John shuffled out of his room around one in the afternoon, looking thoroughly perplexed as he blinked into the sunlight streaming through the lounge windows. "Why'd you let me sleep so late?" He inquired of Mycroft while making his way into the kitchen to prepare his customary cup of tea.

"I thought you could use the rest," Mycroft replied smoothly. "You seemed to have had a rather rough night." He flipped to the next page in his paper, acting as casually as possible while he searched John for any signs that the man recalled his nightmare and the subsequent drugging. Seeing nothing of the such, Mycroft turned his attention back on the paper while keeping John in his peripheral vision.

"Oh," John walked out into the lounge, clutching a steaming mug of tea and rubbing at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. "I suppose it wasn't the most restful." He sat in his usual armchair and began sipping at his tea while his brow furrowed as he tried to work out what had happened the night before.

"Yes, your therapist mentioned that your memories might have a nightmare-like quality if they returned while you were sleeping." Mycroft kept his tone light and casual, hoping to implant the idea in John's mind that it had simply been a minor event from his time in Afghanistan turned into a nightmare by the twisted mechinations of his subconscious.

John, however, seemed to have other concerns on his mind. "You know, Mycroft, you sure do seem to know a lot about what my therapist says. One might think that you had been snooping."

Mycroft finally looked up from his paper to meet John's eye. "I'm sorry if it appears that way, John. I merely speak to her briefly after your meetings to make sure that she's worth the money I'm paying her. It's perfectly harmless, I assure you."

"Well, I want you to stop. If the money's such a concern I'll find one that's free. This isn't going to work if I know that you're constantly hovering in the background and spying on me."

"Of course. I'm sorry, John. I hadn't thought that you would consider my concern such a terrible breech of your privacy."

"Oh yes, sure, because harassing a man's therapist to gain access to his personal information usually isn't a breech of privacy."

Mycroft did not mention that he hardly had to harass the doctor as she was a personal employee of his and therefore required to give him the information he requested. Instead, he smiled his most placating smile at John and relented, "You have my word, John, that I will not longer "spy" on your sessions, as you so crudely put it."

"Thank you." John grew quiet and stared down at his mug, neither taking a sip nor making any motions to do so. Mycroft knew from his body language that he was going to discuss another troubling matter, but he hadn't the faintest idea what it might be. "I've been thinking, actually, that maybe I'd like to go back to school or find a job or something. I don't think I'd be of much use in the medical field again, but, I don't know, maybe I could pick something else up? Just something so I can get on my own two feet again."

Ah. Of course John was concerned about finding a way to feel like a productive member of society once again. Mycroft had known that stagnation would not suit John for long, but he had thought that surely John would be content to spend longer than three months recuperating. "John, you realize, of course, that prolonged exposure to the outside environment is inadvisable for a multitude of reasons. The lasting damage done to your lungs increases the chances of a respiratory infection significantly, and you're far less likely to have a successful recovery should you become ill. Your neurologist also mentioned that there is a high chance of you developing epilepsy as a result of the trauma to your brain."

"I know," John cut in. "I just don't want to sit around on my thumbs for the rest of my life. God knows it's not worth living if I'm just rotting away in your flat each day."

"I see." Mycroft grew quiet as he tried to find a solution to their problem. Although he disagreed with the timing of John's request, he knew that it was a problem which was going to have to be dealt with eventually. "What if, for the time being, you enrolled in some online classes? You could take a couple and complete them in a manner which suits yourself while exploring your interests. If you found something that seemed particularly interesting, you could enroll in more classes of that nature until you found an appropriate career path. I just hope that you realize that there is no end bound to how long you are allowed to stay here; I welcome having you here as long as you wish to stay."

John thought it over for a moment and then gave a genuine, relieved sort of smile. "Right. That sounds okay. I can deal with that."

Satisfied that John's need to feel productive had been sated for the moment, Mycroft smiled and rose from his seat, tossing his paper aside for later. "Well, if that's all you wished to talk about, I'll be in my office finishing up a bit of work. I should be finished around dinner time."

"Great," John smiled up at him. "Then you'll be able to go out to the pub with me and and Lestrade."

"What?"

"Come on, Mycroft. It'll be fun. I don't think you ever go out for strictly recreational purposes."

"John, I believe I just mentioned how inadvisable it is for you to be out in public right now. What makes you think that going to a pub, the cesspit of society, is a good idea?"

John rolled his eyes but refused to back down. "That's why you should come with us. I'm sure you'll be perfectly responsible and make sure to bring alcohol wipes to clean every surface before I come into contact with it."

"John, I hardly think that protecting you from pathogens is within my job description."

"Then don't do it! You can be irresponsible for the night and have a drink or two. I won't let you get into trouble, I promise. I can be the big brother for the night and watch out for you. I'm not allowed to drink anyway, so I might as well live vicariously through you."

"No, John."

"Fine." John shrugged and leaned back in his chair, looking the picture of casual uncaring. "I guess Lestrade and I will have to go alone, then. Probably we'll have to ride in a filthy cab, and I doubt that Lestrade knows which pubs are the cleanest of the lot. We'll probably end up in that god-awful tavern he's visited since he was in uni. I can't remember the name, but he's told me all sorts of stories about it. He even said that one time, when he was younger, of course, the bartender taught him how to shoot up cocaine. Demonstrated on himself and everything before going back to serving up drinks."

Mycroft stared at John evenly. He could see through the ploy as easily as cellophane, but still he felt a niggling sense of wariness. He didn't doubt that Lestrade would keep John safe, and yet John's casual mention of cocaine had struck a nerve. "Fine, I'll go, but you have to leave as soon as I say so, and you're not to go near anyone with as much as a sniffle."

"Good," John beamed up at him. "Now go and get your work done and find a change of clothes. I'd be much obliged if you'd try not to dress like you've got a meeting with the ambassador of Bangladesh. It'll scare the other patrons away."

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh but turned to go to his office nevertheless. He assured himself that it wouldn't be a completely miserable night. He liked Lestrade, after all, and John certainly made most activities more entertaining.

-oOo-

The party was about as needlessly extravagant as Mycroft had anticipated it would be. His parents had spared no expense in the flower arrangements, catering, or decor. Of course, they could hardly be expected to bypass a chance to flaunt their wealth and success. Really, Mycroft should have been glad that they hadn't rented the albino peacocks for the occasion as they had done for his eighteenth birthday. Of course, Sherlock's allergic reaction to the birds and subsequent trip to the A&E probably had more to do with their decision to avoid the peacocks than did tact or taste.

"Ah, Mycroft, my lad, come and meet my dear old friend Vincent." Father threw his arm over Mycroft's shoulder and steered him towards a rather grouchy looking old man. "Vincent, you of course remember Mycroft. He and your son used to be such good friends. How is Bernard, by the way?"

Vincent's mouth twisted into a poorly-concealed scowl before taking on the usual faux smile of the extremely wealthy. All white teeth and barely concealed malice. "I'm afraid that Bernard has got himself into a bit of a scrape with the law. He's currently being held under suspicion of involvement in drug smuggling."

"What a pity," Father shook his head in mock sadness. "I suppose you can't choose your children anymore than the child can choose their parents, of course. Perhaps Mycroft could lend a hand to dear Bernard. He's been admitted to the bar, you know. Graduated at the top of his class, in fact. His mentor said that he'll be running the country one day. I'm sure that a boy with talent like Mycroft's could get your son out of trouble in a fix."

"Yes," Vincent's mouth hitched open a little wider, revealing even more bleached white teeth. "I'm sure that he could. Although if he plans to follow in your footsteps, I doubt he would condescend to work such a simple case as my son's."

Seeing that the two had no intentions of dropping the conversation any time soon, Mycroft quietly excused himself and went to find a less vicious conversational partner. He wondered through the house, murmuring pleasantries to the guests as was necessary and subtly ducking away from those to whom he did not want to speak. Eventually, he found himself a secluded corner where he could eat cake and drink champagne in peace. At least, that was the plan until Sherlock appeared next to him, looking as petulant and scornful as ever.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock. Are we on speaking terms again?"

"Only when it's completely necessary."

"Ah. There are plenty of other guests, Sherlock. I hardly think that the situation necessitates speaking to me."

"The other guests are tedious and dull. You are marginally less so, and therefore make a better conversational partner than they."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I feel so distinguished."

"You shouldn't."

"I was being contumelious."

"And I chose to ignore your sarcasm. Just as I am choosing to ignore your pompous choice of wording."

"You mean my diction?"

"Really, Mycroft, if you're trying to get me wound up, it won't work."

"It seems to be working nicely, actually. Or is the drink making you flushed? You always did seem to have such a low tolerance for alcohol. Pity. You do take so much after mother."

"Don't you dare accuse me of being like that-"

"That what, Sherlock? Surely the best academy in Britain has at least taught you how to formulate a proper sentence."

"That shrew."

"Well, that was mild."

"She agreed to turn your old room into a lab; I can't be too acerbic towards her."

"Ah." Mycroft frowned down at his now empty glass. Sherlock always did seem to have the effect of making him want to drink. "And what do you plan to do in this lab of yours? Find more recreational drugs with which to experiment?"

"That was only once," Sherlock bit out sharply. "And I haven't done it since."

"Have you found a new activity to preoccupy yourself, then?"

"Yes, actually. It's a little club I found. I intend to go there later tonight, in fact, if you're interested in looking in on it. I know how much you do so love to spy on me."

"Calling the headmistress and inquiring after your behavior and marks is hardly spying, Sherlock. It's only what every concerned parent would do."

"Yes, and contrary to whatever neurosis you are suffering under, you are not my parent."

"Considering that I masqueraded as your father in order for you to gain admission into the academy, I hardly think that it is outside of my rights to call in to check on you."

"I only asked that of you so Father wouldn't mar my chances of being accepted by acting...abrasive. You, at least, have a working knowledge of how to be pleasant and amicable."

"I'm glad to have been of service, then."

"You're glad to have something to hold over my head."

"Yes, well, that doesn't prevent me from being proud of your accomplishments thus far. You're doing well, Sherlock, very well."

"I don't need your approval."

"Then quit pushing me into situations wherein I'm obligated to give it."

"I never-" Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh and snatched a glass of champagne from the nearest server. He downed it in one gulp before taking a deep breath and seeming to relax. "You are utterly infuriating. You do know what they're saying about you, right? They're saying that you're some sort of genius at law, that one day you'll be some big wig in Parliament."

"Is that so?" Mycroft laughed lightly while shaking his head. "I'm sorry to disappoint the blathering masses, but I actually have other intentions. Father, of course, does not need to hear about this."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes lit up with interest. "What is it that you plan to do?"

"I can't say, but I assure you that a job in Parliament is not on my agenda."

Sherlock scowled but otherwise did not press the matter. "Will you come with me? When I go out tonight, that is."

"Where do you intend to go?"

"The club. The one I mentioned earlier. I think you'll find that it is quite rewarding."

"Club? Forgive me, Sherlock, but you hardly seem like the type to go dancing and drinking."

"Not _that _type of club. Has politics really made you so dense? It's different. I really do think you'll like it."

Mycroft frowned, his eyes roving about the room as he contemplated whether there was more risk involved in staying at the party or in going with Sherlock. "Fine. I'll go with you."

"Wonderful. Meet me on the back patio during the fireworks. Mummy and Father will be too busy catering to their drooling guests to notice our absence then."

"Alright. In the meantime, I suggest you stop drinking. It wouldn't do to be sloshed in front of the guests."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before disappearing into the horde of tux and gown-wearing piranas once again. Mycroft made his way into the crowd also and begun lightly conversing with the more civil of the guests. When it finally came time for the fireworks display, Mycroft slipped out the back door and stood on the patio while waiting for Sherlock. He didn't have to wait long as his brother soon arrived in a pair of cotton sweat pants and a t-shirt. He carried a bag over his shoulder which he tossed to Mycroft.

"You can change here, or there. Whichever you choose is fine, but I can't guarantee that your tux won't be stolen if you change there."

Mycroft sighed and quickly stepped behind some bushes to dispense of his tux. He didn't mind, really; the thing was horridly uncomfortable, even more so than his usual formal wear. He pulled on the clothing that Sherlock had provided for him, noting with some chagrin that the pants were a bit snug. Once he was fully clothed and his tux was neatly folded into the bag, he stepped back out and allowed Sherlock to stowe the bag in one of his many hidey holes.

"Come along, then." Sherlock's long legs took him briskly over the yard and towards the main road, and Mycroft found himself following Sherlock with only a moment's hesitation. Usually it was best not to just walk wherever Sherlock decided to lead you, but in this instance Mycroft thought that remaining at the house might be the greater of the two evils. Together, they made their way towards the road where Mycroft was surprised to find a car waiting for them. Sherlock threw the door of the taxi open and gracefully slid in as only Sherlock could do while giving the address to the cabbie. Mycroft sat next to him, slightly discomfited by the whole situation.

They arrived at the address not too long thereafter, the cab ride having been marked by an uncomfortable silence as were most spaces which were simultaneously occupied by Sherlock and Mycroft. For over a year now, it was either silence or poorly concealed bickering. That aside, however, Mycroft was surprised to see that they were in front of a small, squat building with no real discerning features on it. In fact, it stood out if only because it was so obviously trying to blend in. Nevertheless, Sherlock strolled towards it with his usual air and Mycroft followed after him. When they walked through the door, Mycroft was assaulted by the stench of sweat and body odor. He wrinkled his nose distastefully and looked around the room in confusion.

"Sherlock, this is a gym."

"No, it's a club."

"There's exercise equipment, Sherlock! And punching bags, and..."

"Yes?" Sherlock smirked as Mycroft's eyes widened at the large, rope-surrounded platform.

"Boxing rings."

"And there you have it. It's a boxing club."

"You've taken up boxing?"

"Yes."

"_You, _Sherlock, have taken up boxing?"

"I believe that's what I just said. Now come on, we need to rent gloves and then we can get on with it." Sherlock began walking in the direction of what looked vaguely like a reception desk while Mycroft trailed after him, his eyebrows arched upwards in a perpetual state of astonishment.

"Sherlock, this can't be sanitary..."

"They sanitize the rings after each fight, Mycroft. And you can hardly bemoan proper sanitation considering your exploits while away at university."

"That was different, and it was with one man, Sherlock! You can hardly hold that against me. Besides that, I knew him. I do not know where the other people that engage in this boxing thing have been or done."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock launched a pair of gloves at him which he only taught due to reflexes trained by music lessons. "Let's go. There's a ring open down here."

Mycroft frowned but followed after Sherlock nevertheless. There wasn't much point in _not _following now anyway. He hadn't the faintest idea what he was supposed to be doing there, but he supposed that he was going to find out soon enough. Sherlock made his way into the ring, Mycroft mimicking the way that he stooped under the rope to get himself into it also. Sherlock helped Mycroft get into his gloves without saying a word then managed to wriggle his own on before stepping to a corner of the ring.

"So, what do we do now?"

"Now," Sherlock said pleasantly. "We beat the shit out of each other."

"Sherlock, this isn't a bloody _fight club."_

"Precisely, because those don't exist. This is a boxing club. We are going to box, and in the process of doing so, beat each other bloody. I trust you know the basic mechanics of it?"

"Of course I do, but that doesn't mean that I want any part in this!"

"You followed me here. You came in the ring. You put on the gloves. Seems to me like you're very eager to box me."

"I didn't know where we were going-"

"You didn't ask."

"-Nor did I think that you were going to use this as an excuse to get rid of your pent-up aggression."

"I'm doing nothing of the such. Think of it as an exercise in self-defense." And with that, Sherlock struck Mycroft across the jaw with a right hook. Mycroft gasped in surprise, instinctively bringing his gloved hand up to his mouth before narrowly dodging another blow.

"What the fuck, Sherlock? I wasn't even ready!"

"And you probably won't be-" Mycroft ducked from another punch. "If you're ever assaulted."

"You're deranged!" In order to avoid another punch to the jaw, Mycroft lashed out wildly, his fist striking against Sherlock's side.

"And you're a fucking prick!" Sherlock lunged forward, garnering himself another strike to his gut while his fist collided with Mycroft's skull. Mycroft staggered back, momentarily dazed, before the anger finally welled up and sent him hurtling towards Sherlock in a blind rage. He managed to catch Sherlock off guard, thereby gaining an advantage as he pummeled his brother relentlessly. He only vaguely registered Sherlock's reciprocal blows against his own body, so caught up was he in causing Sherlock as much physical pain as possible.

He didn't even notice that he had been shouting until he felt the first of thick, hot tears fall onto his collarbone. "I fucking hate you! You've ruined everything since the day you were born. I couldn't live my own life or have my own friends because I was always looking after you, and you are an ungrateful, narcissistic, self-centered bastard!"

Of course, he didn't feel so bad about it when he realized that Sherlock was doing some shouting of his own. "My whole life you've bitched about how terrible our parents are, and yet you go right along and do whatever they wish. You're just like them, Mycroft, and you're turning more into Father every single fucking day, and I hate you for it!"

They somehow found themselves on the ground, each taking a turn at smashing the other's face in before the one being beaten finally managed to tip the balance back in their favor and turn the tables on the other. They didn't stop until they were both panting and gasping too hard to have even a remote hope of being able to land a solid punch on their opponent. Finally, they broke apart and sat across from the ring staring at each other while they tried to catch their breath.

"Right. I don't...sense _any _pent-up...aggression...at all." Mycroft gasped out as he angrily tried to wriggle his hands out of the gloves.

"Fuck off," Sherlock said simply before clambering out of the ring and storming off towards the locker rooms. Mycroft watched him disappear into the showers, feeling a heaviness descending upon himself. Saying all of that should have been a relief, considering he had been thinking it for so long, but instead he felt strangely ill and a bit hollow.

-oOo-

"Mycroft, are you ready to go?"

Mycroft sighed but stepped out of his room nevertheless. John smiled eagerly up at him, practically radiating joy at the prospect of getting to go out. Mycroft internally winced as he realized how deprived of socialization John was if merely going out to the pub with his "brother" and close friend was causing him his much excitement. Then again, it could also probably be attributed to the novelty of the thing for John. More than likely he didn't remember what pubs were like at all and was therefore eager to experience them again.

"Lestrade's here. He said that if you come out wearing a three piece suit he's going to take you back to his place and force you into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt." John looked Mycroft's outfit over appraisingly, smiling at his attempt to be informal. "Well, you don't look like a complete twat, so that's something."

"Shouldn't having your memory erased have cleaned up your mouth a little bit?"

"Not at all," John said simply while leading Mycroft into the lounge. "The neurologist said that the memory part of the brain is separate from the speech part, so in most cases of amnesia, unless there's broad-range trauma, the patient's speech patterns stay the same. Apparently, I was a foul-mouthed soldier," he shrugged and grinned at Lestrade whom was awkwardly standing at the door. "Ready?"

"Yes, let's get on with it. I'm sure that Mycroft has a bed time scheduled for you." John made a face and punched Lestrade on the shoulder, but otherwise didn't seem deterred at all from their evening plans. Mycroft had vaguely hoped that Lestrade's snarky remark would have caused a fight and therefore ended the evening early. Apparently, however, he and John had the sort of friendship that one expected from teens whom were mates on a rugby team.

"No, but I feel it's necessary to remind you, John, that you shouldn't try snogging every girl you encounter. The human mouth is wrought with bacteria."

John blinked at him, cocking his head to the side while he looked from Lestrade to Mycroft as if looking for some sign that Mycroft had been joking. "Did I often snog every girl in the pub?" He asked with a slight frown.

"Er," Lestrade shifted awkwardly and shrugged. "It wasn't so much as every girl as just every somewhat desirable person that made themselves available, really. Although, to your credit, you never initiated it. They just sort of...flocked, I guess would be the word for it."

John stared at him with an incredulous expression before a grin spread across his face. "Me? No way. I'm..." He frowned slightly as if trying to find the right word for it. "Well, I'm just sort of boring, I guess."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and shrugged. "You said the same thing before, too. You'll see what I mean when we get there, I'm sure."

Mycroft silently hoped that they _wouldn't _see when they got there, but he knew that it wasn't likely. If anything, the loss of his memories made John seem more exotic and therefore interesting to potential mates. Already he had noticed the barista at the nearest coffee shop taking an unhealthy interest in John, and then there were the young university students that delivered their take away when John ordered it. Luckily, John for the most part had seemed oblivious to their advances, which was just as well. Mycroft found himself even more distrustful in light of Sherlock's predicament, and really did not want to have to go through the tedious process of screening all of John's sexual partners.

They arrived at a small establishment which looked harmless enough. It wasn't overly crowded nor offensively dirty. Lestrade, at least, seemed to be half as mindful of John's condition as was Mycroft. They entered the pub and found themselves a small table a safe distance from the bar, John already looking thrilled just to be out of the flat.

"Are you going to have a drink, Mycroft?" Lestrade almost looked hopeful, and Mycroft realized that, like himself, the DI was doing this as much for John's benefit as he was. Mycroft frowned, weighing the risks involved before finally coming to a decision.

"Yes, just the house brew. And I'm only having one," he shot a glance towards John so that he would know that Mycroft had no intentions of becoming inebriated. John, however, was already busy talking to another man sitting at the next table over. Mycroft blinked in surprise, startled at just how quickly John had found himself a conversational partner. He sighed and resolved not to take his eye off John the rest of the night.

Once Lestrade returned, he settled three glasses onto the table and sat next to Mycroft, shaking his head at the sight of John already immersed in conversation with a small cluster of people. "Alright, there's a house brew for you, a house brew for me, and a water for John." He pushed the glass towards John with a slight smirk. John, however, simply turned around, thanked Lestrade, and went back to his conversation. Apparently, the group was very enthusiastically discussing rugby, although how anyone could be enthusiastic about such a sport was beyond Mycroft's comprehension.

"So..." Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair and cleared his throat. "How have things been with you?"

"Fine." Mycroft stated simply before realizing that Lestrade had been making a feeble attempt at conversation. "John and I discovered that he's terrible at chess the other day."

"You know, you two are becoming unhealthily co-dependent. That's why I brought him here; I thought it might be good if he made some friends."

"He has plenty of friends," Mycroft scowled. "The whole of Scotland Yard seems to think they're his best mate."

"Yes, and he's friends with them because he feels obligated, and most of them only vaguely knew him before the accident, anyway, and have just been playing the part of being his mate out of pity or some misguided sympathy."

Mycroft shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He was not liking the realization he was coming to. He had thought that, if he kept John safe and healthy, everything would be fine. Now he was finding that "safe and healthy" did not instantly entail "happy."

"So you're saying that _this," _Mycroft gestured to where John was now standing and playing darts with some men, "is something that he needs to do?"

"Well, not just going to the pub, but just getting out in general. I'm sure he's brought up that he wants to go to school or get a job, hasn't he?"

"Yes, he mentioned it earlier today."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him he could sign up for some online classes until he's in better health, and then we'd figure out where to go from there." Mycroft winced as he realized that he had likely said the exact opposite of what he should have in that situation.

"That's a start, I guess." Lestrade leaned back in his chair, now watching John playing darts as well. "He's pretty good at that." His eyebrows arched up as John made a particularly impressive shot. "Very good, in fact." He leaned forward with a slight frown as John prepared to throw another dart.

Little alarms were going off in Mycroft's mind, but he couldn't exactly place why. He knew it had something to do with John's uncanny aim, the way he was hitting the highest scoring spaces on the board time after time, and the way Lestrade was staring at him with an expression of mixed awe and horror.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed. "He's the one that shot the cabbie, isn't he?"

Ah. So that explained the vague sense of unease Mycroft had been feeling, at least. He supposed that he could be forgiven for forgetting the cabbie. It had been so long ago, after all, and was such a trifling matter in the grand scheme of things.

"Yes, he was," Mycroft said with a shrug. "But are you really going to take an amnesiac to court and try him for a crime that he doesn't even remember committing?"

Lestrade's mouth fell into a thin line as he watched John laughing with the other players while they reset the board. "No, I suppose not...Then again, I was probably so drunk that I imagined all this." With that, he drained his glass and rose to fetch another.

-oOo-

It was an utterly miserable day.

Miserable weather, miserable time of morning, and miserable crime. A grisly triple murder at three in the morning during a sleet, to be more specific. Ghastly, horrible, miserable.

Lestrade groaned and let his back slide down the wall so that he was sitting on his heels and he could bury his face in his hands. Was it too much to ask that the psychopaths at least waited until a decent hour to commit their disgusting crimes against humanity?

He supposed that it was, given the state of the lounge he was currently hunched in.

Abruptly, however, his moment of quiet was interrupted by a ruckus from above. He groaned and straightened himself out, attempting to prepare himself for whatever was causing the shouting and thunking issuing from above.

"Lestrade! There was a man! A man in the attic. He was in a bath tub..." Gregson dragged a rather scrawny looking bloke into the room, brandishing him as if he was some sort of trophy. "And he's got blood on him. Lots of it."

That much, at least, was obvious. Lestrade couldn't even make out what color his jumper was under the thick coating of the stuff. "Okay..." Lestrade worked to regain his bearings at the onslaught of new information. The man certainly did look like a murderer, but Lestrade quickly banished that thought as counter-productive. If one started making assumptions, they would also twist the facts to meet those assumptions. "What's your name, young man?" He figured the term was appropriate, given that he didn't appear to be out of his early twenties yet.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Bollocks," Gregson cut in, giving him a harsh glare. "There's no way that's a real name."

"It is, and it's mine. I'd appreciate it if you'd not mock it, thank you much. I'm rather fond of it, myself." Sherlock's hand reached up to brush greasy curls out of his eyes, and he blinked in shock at the thick coating of blood on his hand. "There's blood on me!" He exclaimed in shock.

"Yes, are you just now noticing that?"

"No, I noticed it earlier, but I thought that the bath would have washed it off..." He frowned and tried wiping it off on his jumper, which really only served to get more of the tacky fluid on him.

"Okay, Sherlock, I think you ought to explain what you're doing covered in blood in a building where there's just been a triple murder."

"Holing up for the night, of course. It's sleeting out. Bound to be a bit chilly, wouldn't you say?"

"And what about the murders?"

"What about them?"

"How did you end up covered in their blood?"

"This?" He gestured at himself inquiringly. "Oh...Well, I think I came in, saw them bleeding, tried to stop it, realized it was a lost cause, and then went to wash up. That's what any rational person would do, at least."

"No, a rational person would have called 999 and let the professionals try to help them." Lestrade frowned, leaning as close to the man as his ol factory nerve would allow to peer at his eyes. "Are you high?"

"I would assume so. That's normally a consequence of shooting up cocaine. Although it was a while ago, so I'm probably coming down off it. That would explain, at least, why I'm starting to get the less-than-pleasant suspicion that you're going to accuse me of murdering these three people."

"Put that one together now, have you?" Gregson sneered. "Right proper genius you must be to have figured it out."

"Oh, I'm so glad you noticed. People usually don't. They think that junkies are automatically sub-intelligent. Quite the opposite, actually. It's the truly brilliant ones that realize what a dreadful place the world is without the aid of a few vices. Some try sex, some try food, others try a 7% solution of cocaine."

"Okay, okay. Listen, Sherlock, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring you in for further questioning. Just cooperate and everything will be a whole lot easier on all of us." Lestrade made a motion for Gregson to retrieve some hand cuffs while he continued talking to the man. He didn't seem inherently threatening, especially not in his half-starved and shivering state.

"I don't want to be brought in for questioning," he said simply while wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "The last time I was in holding I had to give an officer a blow job so they wouldn't call Mycroft."

Lestrade froze, frowning at the many things wrong with that particular statement. He decided that it was best to ignore it, especially since Sherlock was high and was most likely lying. "Listen, I'm sorry to say that you're in quite the bind here, Sherlock. Given the preliminary evidence, you look like a fairly likely suspect. I'm not saying this to scare you; I'm just saying it because, well, you should probably refrain from saying anything else incriminating."

"Oh...Yes, I can see the logic in that. Although," Sherlock turned to Lestrade with eyes that were alight with something other than drugs. "If I could find you the murderer, would I be able to go free? Mycroft's going to be terribly smug if he finds out that I was arrested for murder, after all."

"You? Catch a murderer? I don't think you're qualified for that. Listen, why don't you sit down in this corner over here and we can talk-" Lestrade was abruptly cut off as Sherlock strode over to the bodies and began examining them, poking them carelessly with his bare hands and crawling over the floor around them. Lestrade was too shocked to say anything, and by the time he had managed to gain control of his vocal chords once again, Sherlock was crawling across the floor elsewhere and mumbling to himself. He then yanked the window open, letting the freezing air further permeate the room as he examined the sill and surrounding areas.

"It should be fairly simple to catch your murderer, Lestrade, if you stop wasting time by talking to me. He's been injured, you see. The second victim has traces of gunpowder on their fingertips. Probably he was so preoccupied with severing the first victim's carotid artery that he didn't notice that the second victim had a gun. He was shot in the leg, as evidenced by this blood splatter pattern over here." Sherlock gestured at the floor. "You don't get that sort spread or drop from a knife wound, and the wound was too close to the ground to have been anywhere else on the murderer's body except the leg. Probably the right leg, too, if the smear over there says anything about it. He then managed to attack and kill the second victim while the third proceeded to hyperventilate in the corner, as evidenced by the slight blue tinge to their fingernails. None of the other victims had it, so it can't be attributed to the cold. Hyperventilation, then. The murderer heard me coming in through the front door, then, and panicked. He took the nearest exit out the window and hobbled his way towards shelter. Now, you should be able to pick up some signs of his trail, if you were to hurry and not waste time further interrogating me."

Lestrade blinked at him, indecisively chewing his lower lip. The man sounded so convincing, and yet part of Lestrade reminded him that psychopaths were also very talented liars. Again, however, he shook aside this assumption. He had no evidence which said Sherlock was a psychopath except the uncaring way that he had treated the bodies, and even then some officers could be rather uncaring when it came to the deceased. "Gregson, come keep an eye on Sherlock. Anderson, Donovan, let's go take a look outside."

The two officers grumbled about having to go muck around in the bitter cold, but Lestrade ignored them. The most important thing was to catch the killer, and Lestrade had a firm feeling that Sherlock wasn't their man. A drug addict in desperate need of having some sense shaken into him, sure, but not their murderer.

Hours later, Lestrade stared in shock at the sleeping form of Sherlock sprawled across his sofa. The man had showered and was wearing some of Lestrade's pajamas, and he at least looked slightly more human than he had in the early morning hours. He still needed a haircut and about a stone and a half in additional body weight, but at least he wasn't rotting in a holding cell somewhere for a crime he hadn't committed.

Following Sherlock's guidance, it had been shockingly easy to find the killer. With their team sweeping the streets and back alleyways, they had found the man near death in a cellar not even two streets over from their original location. He was currently in custody at a hospital, but the doctors had assured Lestrade that he would make a full recovery eventually. Sherlock, meanwhile, had been sitting in a cell at the station while the whole mess was sorted out. Once evidence confirmed that he had been trying to help the victims and was not an accomplice in the murders, he had been released. Lestrade had barely caught up to him in time to offer the services of his flat, on the condition that Sherlock got clean and stopped mucking up his murder scenes.

-oOo-

Looking back, Lestrade decided that getting Sherlock to keep up at least half of his bargain was quite an impressive feat. Of all the crimes he had solved and criminals he had put behind bars, he couldn't help but feel proud that he had been the first one to gain Sherlock's trust enough to make him sober up. He had then passed the torch to John, letting him take up the responsibility of turning the great detective into a good man. And he had thought that John was actually going to succeed. He had thought that, in a little more time, Sherlock would become the man that everyone hoped he would be. Time, however, is a valuable commodity. Time, it seemed, was the one thing of which Sherlock and John never seemed to have enough.

-oOo-

**Author: May I say, "Thank the sweet deities of fanfiction that this chapter is done!"? Seriously, I thought I was never going to get it uploaded. Anyway, thank you for putting up with the delay between updates and being wonderful readers. And, hey, look! I added chapter titles to make it easier for me to tell you how much time is passing.  
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